Interview with Han VanderHart, On Poetry

Han VanderHart is a queer writer and arts organizer living in Durham, North Carolina. Han is the author of the poetry collection What Pecan Light (Bull City Press, 2021) and the chapbook Hands Like Birds (Ethel Zine Press, 2019). They have poetry and essays published in The Boston Globe, Kenyon Review, The American Poetry Review, The Rumpus, AGNI and elsewhere. Han hosts Of Poetry Podcast, edits Moist Poetry Journal, and co-edits the poetry press River River Books with Amorak Huey. 

Your book, What Pecan Light, explores the intimacies of a speaker’s long and winding relationship to the American South. It seems that the poems fluctuate between love and criticism quite fluidly while pausing at many different points in-between. What made you decide to write an entire book on this subject? 

I love that you entwine love and criticism in your question—I think of Iris Murdoch (via Simone Weil’s) “just and loving gaze”—there is no love without justice, or justice without love. Poetry does this work so well: holding the tenderness and the anger together (for example, the collected work of June Jordan, which I’ve been reading the past few months). I think the answer to your central question of what made me write a book on the topic of the south and my family’s relationship to it is that I couldn’t not write this book—it is an account-giving, in the old, congregational sense of the expression, where you stand up in front of you community and you tell your story, and where you have come from, and where you are now as a person. 

Coming from a small, rural town myself, I really enjoy the speaker’s fascination with life on the farm. Why do you think your poetic imagination is so drawn to this particular landscape? 

The late Louise Glück wrote, “We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.” That young, pre-frontal cortex is so open to the world—to image, to love, to harm—to learning how to move through the world. Environment ALWAYS gets into our poems, no matter our age, but the growing mind’s early impressions are an Ur-impression of the world—almost a platonic ideal, not in the ideal or positive sense, but in their importance in how we read the world. I grew up in an isolated, rural environment, locked into my mother’s back-to-basics world while my father was deployed overseas. Writing What Pecan Light is definitely a version of Diane Seuss’s “building a bearable myth.” 

 What does your process look like when writing poetry? Do you consistently use a certain space, how many drafts do you go through, etc.? 

Chaotic and varied, ha. I was born under a new moon (Cusp of Energy: Taurus/Gemini), and I am happiest when I bring a variety of energies to my writing. I joke (but it’s a serious joke!) that the best thing you can do for your writing is something else. Go garden. Go spend time with animals, music, baking. The poems will come to you more willingly this way, if you don’t hunt or stalk them. I often write on my phone, in the notes app (this method results in saved poems, as I’m impossible at remembering physical drafts). I try not to be too precious about writing time—I do it when I feel like it! I don’t experience writers block, which I suppose is something writers who force themselves to sit in a chair experience. I don’t think writing should be forced, or painful; I think it should be pleasurable.  

Who would you say are your strongest literary influences and why? 

Like which writers a reader might see in my poems, or who I like to bring up in every conversation? Haha. I adore Iris Murdoch, an Irish novelist, philosopher (and sometimes writer of very mid poetry—forgive me, Murdoch). Murdoch was genderqueer, and deeply invested in human desire and self-fantasy; you know a Murdoch character is intensely in their fantasy-comfort when they quote Saint Julian of Norwich’s “all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” Murdoch impresses me by richly detailing the impotence of that comfort, in a human life—no, it will not be well! But we can still “find something good and hold onto it like a terrier” (from her novel, The Good Apprentice). I also love Simone Weil (“it is better to say you are suffering than that the landscape is ugly”), and Wittgenstein (“a word’s meaning is its use in the language”), and basically many of the ordinary language philosophers. For poets, I’m deeply attached to C.D. Wright, Linda Gregg, Carl Phillips, Diane Seuss—all of them paying great attention to both recklessness and restraint. 

 What is the best advice you could give to beginner writers, especially in this unprecedented age of AI and collapsing humanities departments within higher education?  

Find your community; build the spaces you need. Your peers are the support who will keep you going, who will be there for you. The world is big, and various, and having non-transactional relationships where you make art together, at the end of the day, is what will sustain you and keep you going. Isolation is the death of artists. 

How has co-running a press affected your writing? Do you ever feel hindered by having to read so much of other people’s work? Or do you think it keeps you inspired and curious?  

River River Books has brought a greater understanding to my own manuscript submissions—I see my work as one among many. I think more (because this is a never-ending process and cycle in a writer’s life!) about the times I have falsely concluded my manuscript was “done,” when no—it was not. It is hard to be patient with one’s own writing—but you can’t force bloom a book, and you shouldn’t want to. Oscar Wilde said there are two tragedies in life: not getting what you wanted, and getting it. But there is a real inspiration in working with someone you admire and respect, and Amorak Huey is probably the greatest inspiration to me, along with our beautiful press authors. 

If you could change anything about the current professional writing world, what would it be and why?  

Do I have to choose between healthcare, or childcare, or job stability? Doom-jokes aside: we are somehow creating out of scarcity—we are somehow loving each other through forced competition, hierarchy, and gatekeeping. In some ways, we have never had such great access to information and art—think of everything we can stream! from a sonata to a French film to a museum talk or poetry reading—at the same time as such economic stratification and polarization between working and professional and upper classes. We can’t act like these things do not affect our colliding artistic communities—they do, at every level.  Every $30 press reading fee financially prohibits some poets from submitting their work—so let’s start with that: making these fees optional, as we do at River River Books. 

What has been the biggest challenge to your success as a poet so far?  

First, I would ask what you mean by success—a book? A community to make art with? I think the biggest challenge has been the lack of parental leave after giving birth (I was back in class a week or so postpartum, and I should not have been, but the department pressure was real, and birthing bodies are supposed to act like they never birthed) and the lack of care for years as a chronic pain sufferer. Artists are best able to make art when their bodies are cared for and when their bills are paid. 

Why should people in today’s world take an interest in reading poetry?

We see how profit reduces our bodies and our labor to numbers: to hours, to datapoints. Poetry refuses to be reduced: it subverts capitalist values, it thrives especially against censorship and political oppression. I think there IS something deeply populist about poetry, and when the academy tries to rarify it or keep it ivory-towered, they lose the heartbeat of poetry. Poetry is for the people the way graffiti and street music and parks and libraries are for the people. Eugenio Montale wrote that all you need for poetry is a pencil and paper, and he was right. 

What are you currently working on? Can we look forward to seeing anything new from you soon?  

I finished my second poetry manuscript Larks—largely about my sisters, trauma, birds, Ovid’s telling of Philomel—and am mostly finished with my third manuscript, Thou Wast Mild and Lovely—erotics and art and the geneaologies of desire. I’m hoping Larks finds the right press home this year! 

Tell us a little about “Of Poetry Podcast”.

Of Poetry Podcast has been a space of abundance and friendship and craft for me—I began it in summer 2021, as a way of supporting other poets with books published during the pandemic. It has grown and flourished and transformed, and I’m so grateful for the way it expands my own thinking about poetry, and brings the gift of other’s poetry to me. It is a community space in a way I could not dream of, and recently reached 10,000 downloads across listening platforms (Apple, Spotify, Google, etc).  

––Meagan Chandler, Mid-American Review

Book Review: Minor Prophets

Minor Prophets by Blair Hurley. Ig Publishing, 2023. 286 pages. $17.95, paperback. 

Minor Prophets, the exciting second novel of accomplished author Blair Hurley, is one of the best books I’ve read all year.  

The novel tells the story of Nora, the former child-mouthpiece of a Pentecostal, doomsday-prepping cult led by her father in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, as she attempts to heal from the violence and trauma of the childhood she escaped by becoming a palliative care nurse in Chicago. Her tenuous sense of peace is threatened by the community she grew up in, which, upon her father’s mysterious death, tracks down Nora’s whereabouts and pushes her to return to their reclusive community to help usher in the end times, which she “foresaw” as a child under pressure from the community to speak in tongues as a vessel for God.  

Set alternatively between the backdrops of Northern Michigan’s serene and dangerous forests and the hustle and glitter of Chicago, the novel moves deftly through time, oscillating between Nora’s childhood and adulthood, which allows the reader to draw parallels between the gendered violence of the cult and of “the world,” as Nora calls secular society. This book is a thoughtful exploration of the complex, nonlinear deconstruction process of a former fundamentalist, and it doesn’t shy away from tough conversations surrounding motherhood, family desire, security, abuse, and love.  

Nora often stumbles throughout her healing process, and when she does, Hurley uses her character’s mistakes to build tension that left my heart racing, and to create resolutions that are simple and profound. In its aching tenderness toward child-Nora and a good chunk of her fellow other cult members, I found myself moved by the way Hurley confronted the humanity of Christian fundamentalists in a way that did not excuse their cruelty, but which critiqued with compassion.  

— Debbie Miszak (she/her), Mid-American Review

Featured Writer: Amorak Huey + Interview

On Thursday, February 29th at 7:30 pm, Poet and writer Amorak Huey will be reading some of his work for the Spring 2024 Prout Chapel Reading Series at Bowling Green State University. The reading will be held in the Prout Chapel on the BGSU campus. The event is open to the public.

Amorak Huey, a poet and writer, has authored four poetry collections, including Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy (Sundress Publications, 2021) and Seducing the Asparagus Queen (Cloudbank Books, 2018). He co-authored Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury Academic, 2024) and won the Diode Editions Chapbook Prize for Slash/Slash (Diode Editions, 2021). Currently a Professor of English at Bowling Green State University, Huey hails from Kalamazoo, Michigan, and has a rich literary background.

Assistant Editor, Ahmad Bilal interviewed Amorak Huey for the blog.

Ahmad Bilal: You’ve had a fascinating journey from journalism to poetry. How has your experience as a journalist influenced your approach to poetry, and vice versa?

Amorak Huey: I have a couple answers for this question. The first one has to do with language: my years as a copy editor were spent considering the sentence. How efficient is this sentence at delivering information? How does it connect to the sentence before, the sentence after? What work does each word here do? Are they necessary, and if they’re not necessary, are they important in some other way? I think (hope) this practice has shaped my poetry.

The second answer has to do with audience, purpose, the larger world. When you’re writing or editing at a newspaper, you have a very clear sense of audience and purpose with every story, every image, every headline. You’re communicating in a very real sense with a very real and very local audience: the 65,000 people in the Tallahassee area who subscribe to this paper or grab it from a newspaper box because they care about what’s happening in their community, for instance. So, you always have them in mind. I hope this practice, too, carries into my poetry: a sense that I’m writing to a real, human audience interested in what I have to say about the world, in how I make sense of the mess that is the human experience. 

AB: Your poetry often combines humor and social commentary, as seen in titles like Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy. How do you perceive the impact of this blend within your poetic work?

AH: I don’t know if I think deliberately about the effect or rhetorical outcome of blending these things, humor and commentary. At least not when I’m writing a poem; if I were writing, say, a newspaper column or a speech, it would be different. But in a poem, for me, it’s more about how we’re always operating at multiple levels of language. Think about code-switching, how we’re all using different diction and vocabulary for different facets of our life. Poems are looking for layers of meaning, right, like, instead of code-switching it’s code-layering — all the versions of yourself can be present at once in a poem. We contain multitudes, etc., so yeah, sometimes the joke-making self and the grief-drowning self and the self with something important to say about the planet (among myriad other selves) — in a poem, they can converge, coexist, contradict each other. 

AB: In your poem “BROKEN SONNET WITH CLIMATE CHANGE AND OFFICE HOURS,” how effective do you find the use of dialogue in addressing intergenerational perspectives on climate change?

AH: Effective within the confines of that particular poem? No idea. That’s a question for a reader, not the poet. But as a reader, I do have a fondness for dialogue in poetry. There’s something about the use of quotation marks that changes the poem’s relationship to truth; the quote marks are a kind of promise that what’s inside them is what a person (perhaps an imaginary one) actually said, though certainly a poem has no obligation to keep that promise. And of course, dialogue is a great way to explicitly give a poem multiple voices, to explore contrast and juxtaposition. 

AB: You’ve also published several chapbooks. What draws you to this shorter form, and how does your approach differ when writing chapbooks versus full-length collections?

AH: For me, a chapbook happens when I have something I’m interested in exploring for 10-15 poems or so. A chapbook is the perfect container for something like this. As a reader, I prefer chapbooks that stand alone, that aren’t just a bunch of loosely connected poems that will eventually also be published in full-length. As a writer, I’m not really a project poet, not enough to fill out a whole collection. My attention span, my willingness to listen to myself go on the same topic — it tends to cut off after a chapbook’s worth of poems. I can’t imagine writing 48-60 or however many poems that are as tightly connected as a chapbook allows. I would bore myself way before that point. I’ve said before that I don’t write books, I write poems, which can cause problems late in the process when it’s time to assemble my poems into a manuscript. So, I tend to have to write double or triple the number of poems a book needs before finding the ones that speak to each other, that coalesce into some larger form: the book. 

AB: Co-authoring a textbook on poetry is a unique endeavor. How did you and W. Todd Kaneko approach creating Poetry: A Writers’ Guide and Anthology? What insights did you gain from collaborating on this project?

AH: Our process began by spending a lot of time talking and thinking about what we wanted the book to be like, what sections and ideas we wanted to include. Helped that our offices were right across the hall from each other at the time (again, the value of local community). Once we had a rough outline, we just each drafted the chapters and sections and dumped them into a Google folder; once we had everything drafted, we went in and edited each other’s work. Because we trusted each other, because we knew we were on the same page about the direction of the book, it was easy to set ego aside and know that the other’s edits were always about moving the project forward, helping it find its final form. We learned a lot about our own writing process and about trust. After we finished that first edition, we also collaborated on a collection of poems about the rock guitarist Slash, following virtually the exact same process. Because we’d done the textbook that way, we had the kind of trust you need to let someone else mess around in your creative work, right? By the end, these were not Todd’s poems or my poems, but our poems, which is kind of magical place for a project to end up. The chapbook is called Slash/Slash, and diode editions published it. 

AB: As a professor and an active writer, how do you engage with the literary community? What advice do you have for emerging poets seeking to connect with other writers and readers?

AH: My advice is: find your people and hold onto them. Make cool shit with your friends. Share your work with people who are excited about what you’re doing. Don’t think of it in any kind of mercenary or reciprocal sense—what can I get out of this—but because you value the kind of connection, the kind of relationships that art makes possible. It’s not about collecting followers on social media or networking on LinkedIn or whatever, it’s about finding people who value what you value, people you can talk to about reading, or writing, or the beautiful messy chaotic work of shaping our lives into and around art.

––Ahmad Bilal, Mid-American Review

How to Play “Forcemeat”: The Boardgame

If you haven’t yet read the article on how this game changed my life, you can find it here.

These are the instructions and materials for the board game adaptation of “Forcemeat” by Henry Goldkamp, which appeared in issue 42.1 of Mid-American Review.

If you enjoy this game, please consider making a small donation to MAR here, or at least checking out Henry’s Instagram.

Materials:

  • Muskpaddles™ (recommended)
  • Cards with random concepts written on them (Here is a PDF of MAR’s cards. Honestly, though, a random word generator will do. That includes your brain.)
  • A Google spreadsheet, shared with and made editable by all players. (This is easiest for us, because we already use a lot of spreadsheets, but you can use an actual board if you’re fancy and don’t have a ton of people.)

Set up:

For the most dramatic effect, I prefer to cut out the muskpaddle circles and attach them to a popsicle stick, but they don’t even have to be glued/taped together if you’re in a rush. Just make sure every player has a way to vote. You can even forgo the muskpaddles entirely, using instead a closed fist to vote “muskmelon” and an open hand to vote “muskrat.”

I recommend using a shared Google Sheet as the “board.” All players can pick a row and put an emoji in its first cell to represent themselves. Choose which space you want to be the finish line (20 worked well for us.) Highlight that column in a fun color. Every 5-10 columns (your discretion), highlight one in red. These will be “debate squares.”

Instructions:

The player with the most unread emails in their inbox is the first flipper.

The flipper flips over the card at the top of the deck, reads the text out loud, and displays the card for all to see.

After reading the card, the flipper counts to 5. On the count of 5, voters must raise their Muskpaddles™ to show either the rat or the melon, based on which they think the card’s object is closer to.

If there are an even number of players, the flipper does not vote on the card they draw. If there are an odd number, the flipper votes along with everyone else.

The votes are tallied. The “correct” answer is the one the most players voted for. Everyone who voted for the “correct” answer advances a space on the board. The flipper responsibility rotates clockwise.

When someone lands on a debate square, when the next card is flipped, only they will declare their melon/rat verdict on the count of 5. Then, any player can challenge this verdict if they disagree. The defendant gets 30 seconds to argue their case, then the challenger. On the count of 5, the remaining players will vote. The debater that’s in the majority will move forward 3 spaces, and the loser will move backwards 1. The other players move or stay still as normal.

(If you have 8+ players, we recommend only going through with the debate for the first players to land on the square. If multiple people land on it at once, the person in the row that is numerically first goes first. Everyone who landed there initially will debate, though, even if they end up advancing while other debates happen.)

If one person lands on the final space before anyone else, they win.

If multiple people land on the final space at once, these are the finalists. Another round of voting takes place (and non-finalists can still advance up to the second-to-last square.) If one of the finalists is in the minority, they are disqualified (but continue voting.) Voting like this continues until only one finalist remains. 

If all remaining finalists are disqualified at once, everyone who had been a finalist moves back 5 spaces and the game resumes as normal.

––Jamie Manias (they/them), Mid-American Review

A Forcerant: My Descent Into Muskmelon/Muskrat Madness

Our favorite game is Muskmelon or Muskrat.

Think of anything in the world, then ask:

Is it closer to a muskmelon, or a muskrat?

                    ––Henry Goldkamp, “Forcemeat,” Mid-American Review, issue 42.1

That’s it. That’s the game that “Forcemeat” is built around. Before adapting this poem into a full-blown board game, I liked it just fine. Even while playing it, I had no idea how drastically this remix would change my experience with the poem. Expanding on it gave me the vocabulary to articulate facets of my identity which I assumed would go unexplained to my family for the rest of my life.

“Forcemeat” was about––as I initially read it––a normalizing system of logic trying to draw sense out of personal and global catastrophe. (Don’t get me wrong, I promise it’s also a lot of fun.) At points, there’s an absurdist disconnect to the dialogue between the two speakers that reminded me of Waiting for Godot (which is to say I’ve read only one piece of absurdist literature.) It wasn’t my favorite in Issue 42.1, (that would be “Bone Town” by Angie Macri,) but it was the favorite of our hard-working (one could say overworked) Poetry Editor. As a Christmas gift for them, I turned the poem into a structured board game for the MAR staff to play.

Obviously, one need only read the opening three lines of the poem to be able to play informally in pairs. It’s as simple as “I Spy” and makes an even better road trip game. When playing in this format, though, one’s decisions go unanalyzed. Each player independently develops their own concept of the melon/rat binary using the fodder their partner supplies. This mimics what we see between the two speakers of “Forcemeat,” who have already established their own codes which (especially if you haven’t been thinking about it for six goddamn months) seem alien and inaccessible.

Our adaptation requires much more intentional analysis––or at least prediction. Players advance on the game board by voting in the majority on increasingly less and less melon/rat-like concepts, within a matter of 5 seconds. The first player to reach the end of the board wins. (Check out the companion post for the full rules and PDFs for the game.) We surprised the 30-strong MAR staff by bringing it to a meeting at the end of last semester.

I had no idea that making the game a communal affair would make it feel so … vulnerable? As our Poetry Editor puts it, voting publicly feels like “baring your soul” ––despite the silliness. Not only do you flounder to quickly draw out increasingly unsubstantiated connections between the given concept and a rat or melon, but it is now something you can get “right” or “wrong.” Your mind is on full display with each vote.

At least, it felt that way. When players landed on red “debate” squares and were forced to justify the melocity or ratitude of that round’s concept, one found that their “allies” share their verdict for completely different reasons. (Example: My friend and I agreed that “butterfly” is a muskmelon. While I thought of the sugary nectar butterflies collect, though, they connected the melon’s rind to the butterfly’s cocoon.) Even one’s opponents used their same reasoning to draw the opposite conclusions. (Example: I thought “stiletto” was a muskrat due to the muskrat’s sharp teeth, but the Poetry Editor thought about the shoe’s sharp heel piercing a melon.) The rules players developed for both categories only grew more abstracted from the physical reality of fruit and Rodentia as we progressed. A huge part of the game (if you played to win) was predicting where those rules were leading your colleagues, but when it was time for a debate, everyone was reminded of how wildly different their perceptions were from everyone else’s. A sense of isolation settled on the room as each player realized that they were the only one correctly interpreting the energies of melons and rats.

This sensation of simultaneous exposure and disconnect enhanced the absurdist feeling I got from the original poem. It drew my attention to the places where the speakers of “Forcemeat” miscommunicate and disagree––it put more emphasis on the end, where the roadkill incident drives a wedge between them. While playing––and now, while reading––I felt a push and pull of intimacy and isolation. It echoes what it’s like to share an experience with someone and find that you had wildly different perceptions of it. I didn’t see any of this in the poem before the board game.

This brings me to my main reason for being obsessed with the “Forcemeat” cinematic universe.

Imagine living in a world where everything is viewed through the lens of this binary: muskmelons versus muskrats. This binary has a largely unspoken ruleset that eludes you, although it seems that everyone around you parsed it quickly and easily. Yet as you discuss this with others, their interpretations prove to be inconsistent with those of your other peers and even internallyinconsistent. Despite this, everything––even YOU––can be cleanly categorized this way. You are deemed muskmelon. Your given name indicates this. On your birthday, you receive muskmelon gifts. You’re expected to wear muskmelon clothes, watch muskmelon shows, pursue muskmelon interests. Every single person who sees you looks at your body to judge: muskmelon or muskrat? They treat you, speak to you differently based on that judgment. Even if you’re hard to sort. Especially if you’re hard to sort.

You feel utterly alienated by this system. The emphasis put on it and the rules that govern it feel absurd, pointless, and limiting. It’s not even that you resent melon life or yearn for rat life. You just want your life to be a muskmelon and muskrat buffet. You don’t want to choose based on that arbitrary status, but rather your own preferences. But alas, when a human is born, the first words it hears are “it’s a melon!” or “it’s a rat!” Whichever they are judged as defines the rest of their life. 

…

So, the plot twist here is that I feel much more like a muskrat on the melon/rat binary than I do like either a man or a woman on the gender binary.

Playing “Forcemeat” deeply spoke to me as a nonbinary person, particularly as a nonbinary person on the autism spectrum. As a kid, social norms didn’t (and still don’t) come easy to me, including the gender ones. (Examples: Women wear makeup. Men don’t cry. Women should be skinny, men muscular. What the hell are you talking about?!) Some will offer evolutionary explanations for such classifications, but I would counter that the way our pre-civilization ancestors survived shouldn’t have such a strong bearing on how we live today. Furthermore, our understanding of our evolutionary past keeps evolving (such as with the men = hunter, women = gatherer myth.) Some cite biochemical reasons for their way of sorting, but in many cases, even when they are scientifically sound, one could argue with similar reasons for the inverse expectations. (If testosterone grants men social leniency to be more expressive of frustration and anger, why does menstruation not call for a similar grace?) The foundation of many of these hyperspecific categorizations are a stretch, much like the reasoning one comes up with when playing “Forcemeat”. They latch onto something like assumptions based on shaky conclusions drawn from a cultural myth of a bygone era, which itself was a departure from the previous assumption of blah blah blah blah blah.

This is all to say that engaging with this silly poem not only resonated with my experience but helped me put into words what makes me so averse, both personally and intellectually, to the gender binary.

Now everyone else, stop reading for a bit. This next part is just for my mom.

––

Hi, Mom!

I was sort of planning on this being an open secret for the rest of my life. Had Outlook not added my email signature––with my changed name and pronouns––to that message I sent you a while ago, I was going to try keeping it a closed secret. Well, as closed as I could keep it after sharing very vocally with my middle school classmates my hope that puberty would grant me hairy arms and a beard.

I’ve been so scared about trying to explain this to any of my family, not because I’m scared of being disowned––I know your love is unconditional––but because I freeze when I even try to think of how I would articulate what it means to consider oneself “nonbinary” to you. I hate arguing and I hate conflict, even in the form of the most sophisticated and gentlemanly debate. I would shatter into a million pieces if any of you responded by starting with so much as the word “But.” That’s caused me to let a gap grow between us. But now, analyzing this poem has given me the words to explain it, and I’m no longer afraid of that conversation.

Maybe you’re thinking, why not live with the “muskmelon” label and do whatever I feel like anyways? You yourself were a tomboy (or tomrat, if we’re speaking metaphorically.) In some ways you grew up to be a thomaswoman. In fact, my own upbringing didn’t pigeonhole me into a strict definition of womanhood as readers might assume, given the little “Twilight Zone” episode they just read. What makes me so sure I haven’t been a muskrattish muskmelon, or a boyish girl, or a masculine woman? 

On a practical, everyday level, I feel so much more comfortable with myself outside the labels of female/male, labels which feel as irrelevant to how I carry myself as the labels muskmelon/muskrat do to most people on earth. Being referred to with she/her pronouns felt like wearing a really uncomfortable sweater that irritates my skin, a fashion choice which is liable to make me 54% grumpier on any given day. I physically felt better when I came out to my friends and colleagues as Jamie Manias, when I wasn’t referred to as a muskmelon all the fuckin’ time, when people knew that they’d likely misinterpret me if they looked at me through the paradigm of man- or womanhood.

On a touchy-feely “who am I” level, “melon” or “woman” being the core descriptor of me as a person––the noun onto which every other aspect of myself is an adjective piled on––does not feel accurate at all. To be considered a masculine woman is still to be considered, grammatically and socially, a woman above anything else. More than that, it is to be considered a woman who is bad at being a woman, according to the rules of the mutually exclusive binary. Like being a cold pot of coffee or a shy public speaker.

Maybe you’re thinking that the way people see me won’t be affected at all by my coming out, that they’ll always see me as a woman. That it’s practically impossible for anyone to mentally accept someone as “in-between” or “neither.” That this binary––even if it is as silly as a binary of melons and rats––can’t really be set aside by anyone. That could be true, especially of me. (It’s hard to divorce a pronoun like “she” from a rack like mine.) But even if the only thing that’s changed is the way people refer to me, that still makes me feel more at home in my own skin. That was a rare feeling for me before realizing this about myself.

Anyways, give Morty and Bella lots of pets for me. Keep the pool table ready, I’ll see you over Spring Break.

With much love,

Jamie Manias.

––

…

Anyways.

I often fear that I neglect my duty to this burning, burning world by wasting my time and talent on writing poetry. 

But before playing “Forcemeat,” I was planning on never having this conversation.

I was terrified.

I thought I could never clearly communicate my internal experience to anyone not already well-versed in gender-ology. 

Maybe I can’t. Maybe I can’t communicate it to anyone. But that’s not the point. The point is that even if nobody understands me any better, even if the writer of “Forcemeat” is appalled by my interpretation (hi Henry!), even if I’m banished from the academy for my mad science of grafting a board game to a living poem, no matter what, I found a way to explain myself to myself here. And if a poem can give that to someone, maybe I’m not wasting my time as a poet.

––Jamie Manias (they/them), Mid-American Review