myself the other, hates you

When I’m walking down a narrow sidewalk, dear reader, I feel in my chest an unshakable worry. I hang one headphone over my ear–usually the left–so that I can hear approaching cyclists and thrust myself into whichever patch of grass is closest. Still, this does little to comfort me. 

I look over my shoulder a worrying amount–I am very much afraid of being smooshed, or at the very least, thoroughly spooked. There’s a bike lane, you see, that goes largely unused by commuter cyclists. They really prefer the sidewalk, and seemingly more so the thin stretch of sidewalk wherever I am walking. 

I feel much the same about academia–there is a very clearly marked lane where they travel, yet somehow where I stand–in an adjacent path–I am still afraid. And annoyed. I know I’m not justified in this annoyance when it comes to cyclists–they are courteous so long as I hear them coming–but academics. Oh I have a lot to say.

Arguably the greatest acknowledgement I’ve received from someone dubbed an “academic” was, “I appreciate your willingness to begin a discussion with dissent.” It was mostly sarcastic, entirely dismissive, and wholly hilarious to me. 

We were discussing a bit of poetry I found particularly inaccessible, and I was called on to speak. I said, “if the majority of people reading will feel stupid if they make an attempt at understanding, why write at all?”

Of course this is counterintuitive to the practice of studying poetry, of course it wasn’t a super productive thing to say, of course I said it anyway because I sincerely don’t understand the desire to confuse someone who is choosing to read your work.

I love poetry–and writing more generally–because this art proves again and again that words, even words from a stranger, can make you feel something. It feels good to respond to silent words in your head. It’s so painfully personal to read and to write–to understand in this way–so why do poets often insist on writing in such an inaccessible way? Why do we have to analyze something to death when the only analysis I’d ever want someone to give of my writing is, “it made me feel ___.”

I am so lucky to be getting an education, and even more so for the scholarship that allows me to attend a university like the one I do. I am grateful, too, for academics in a broader sense. Without them we would not have vaccines–modern medicine–an understanding of our own bodies. 

What I am not grateful for, dear sweet reader, is the gatekeeping of knowledge that takes place among academics. It is in fact an illusion. Academia may have us believe that knowledge belongs only to those who receive a college education, or who read and reread texts in the hope of forming some groundbreaking analysis. It is a lie, and a dangerous one. 

Learning happens everywhere, knowledge is and has always been entirely shared. To not respect that, to require a degree or some level of performative study is just silly. 

This rant, for which I apologize only a tiny bit, was brought on by a three hour discussion of a 7 line poem. Just 23 words. It is an elegy–a poem for a dead loved one–by Donald Revell. It goes like this:

myself the other

winter even more

myself the other

still  as  obscure

a milk white one

a coal black one

winter even more

After reading and rereading and rereading again while looking down his nose at us, the professor explained the poem in lofty terms. He spoke of the ethics and rules of its language. We were all jumping at the chance to say just a few words about these few words so that we may seem intelligent enough to understand such art. Bullshit. 

This is a beautiful poem. It’s gorgeous and sad and contained within itself. I love it. However, I don’t think it warrants 3 hours and fourteen–I counted–fourteen rereadings aloud. 

I don’t think it warrants worry and obsession from a class of 20 students just to speak a few words in exchange for an A in participation. Donald Revell–and I am projecting here so I apologize–didn’t want that. He just wanted his words to be read, to make the reader feel something. 

After our 3 hour discussion, we were given the assignment to write in the way he did–with a disconnection from the concept of self and other. A disconnection that we discussed thoroughly, oh so fucking thoroughly, during these long hours. 

I’m going to share with you what I wrote, dear reader, in anger and in despondency to those who look perpetually down their noses.  

It’s inspired by one of my favorite poems by Julie Sheehan, called Poem 127: Hate Poem. Check it out, it’s really something. You can find it very easily for free on the internet. I won’t even ask you to analyze it.

Here’s mine. Don’t think about it too much:

–

myself the other, hates you.

winter — coal — the milk in my fridge 

hate you.

the hand reaching 

from the grave (plastic of course) and used

for October decoration hates you.

the extension cord — my only constant — hates you.

the carpet speckled and curious. hate.

the dirty mug neglected

for 41 nights hates you too.

my poor circulation hates me, 

but it hates you more, assuredly. 

the rippings from my hairbrush are flushed

down the toilet while hating you.

the last sip of beer–warm and flat–

mostly flem

hates you as an equal.

the air outside even

Watch how it moves away

When you walk–clearly hate.

the slant in the letter L hates you 

the curve in the S even more so.

Kentucky derby hats–though ugly and obscene–

are redeemed by whimsy and so rightfully hate you. 

the last library book in existence

will surely hate you. 

the trees–even dead ones–even 

the patch of dirt that implies 

eventual tree 

hates you. 

the act of fucking exists 

in spite of you.

so naturally, its hate is worst

of all.

–

I love you so much dear reader.

Take good care.