Life is not a (Western) drama
of four or five acts
Sometimes it just drifts along
My climax arrived at birth
falling into actions of childhood
Resolving the tragicomedy
of adolescence
I have no exposition
for my youth
nor could I execute
a rising action
into adulthood
My life spirals
like an infinite sequence
unplanned
unscripted
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One somehow "feels sorry"
for these men
whose power extends well beyond
the frontiers of their territory
but whose field of vision ends
at the fence of their own yard
understand your vision
analyze your impact
versions of "primitiveness"
versions of self-sufficiency
the value of work
community
time
fluctuates with the rising tide
Words empty out with age.
Die and rise again,
With new meanings,
and a secondhand memory.
I is no longer I.
“We” does not recognize me,
Constantly including and excluding me.
No fixed meanings,
no true identity.
My end is never,
My beginning is just begun.
My history is recognized,
yet still often ignored.
Where does my life stop,
so my story can start?
Living in a world
knowing the past and scared of
the future what does it
all mean?
Will the fighting ever stop
or will history repeat itself
in an ongoing circle over
and over again?
The beggining of all this seems
like ages ago and the end
seems like ages away which raises the ultimate question.
Why is the hatred in this World
a constant issue and when will it all ultimately end in an attempt to create a brand new beggining for all?
Ignorance.
Still trying to educate men of our existence
Proving that women contribute to history
Even when their efforts weren’t necessarily documented.
This is a society where men dominate.
This is one of life’s many stories.
Past, present, and future.
“And the same story has always been changing, for things which do not shift and grow cannot continue to circulate.”
From “once upon a time”
To "the end"...
Does the end ever come?
They see no life
Freedom should be uncontroverted
Where is the right
in this divided world
Myopic men made mistakes
Progress perpetually pauses
Fiction clouds minds
Genders are divided
There is no truth
History involves them
but they don't believe it
Pride still exists
In this conflicted society
Unity is necessary
The world's earliest
archives or libraries
were the memories
of women.
The women in the community
pass down history.
You grow up hearing,repeating
And spreading the history
Of our people.
Some question the stories.
Some have doubts of the
validity of the stories
Some listen to them over
and over.
To know your history
Is to know oneself.
Stories become more valid,
As books become more questionable.
Ask yourself
"Who am I?"
The answer remains
with you.
with your family.
with your community.
Let me tell you a story.
For all I have is a story
Story passed on from generation to generation
Stories are history
Told to reminds us of the past
To give life to those long forgotten
Those that history has made nothing of
In comparison to men
Those considered inadequate
To be in the same category as Shakespeare
These are the ones I give life to
Telling you of their story
Breaking from the oppression set upon us
Perceiving us inadequate of our opposite sex
Passive substance, enigma: snare and delusion, "a real woman".
Don't overstep the line.
Second sex, first and third.
Gender identity is given (so don't worry about that) but who will the black mullatto one Obama or Clinton? Is a real woman antagonistic and not equal to a real man. Witness this trainwreck, halfbaked lines.
Truth and lies.
"Ah'm gointer lie up a nation" Total knowledge. Identify structure without structure. Structure: flexible and accurate. No end that leaves the mind at rest.
Truth and lies. Run in a lineage of women. White man woman portray unwritten as unworthy. Perhaps. Because we own a culture whose inklings were yes of story telling. The stories of the Bible passed down at a campfire. But our scribes wrote them down. And they live in written word forever. Does that make our culture superior? Yes, in that we have a written language by whatever sexist means achieved, and they don't. Flourish.
Thinking for an end not a means that is truth. The inequality wears me worse.
Let me tell you a story
The story of people, history and of us peoples
The story is everyone,coming to being
A life experience or a fable
Legends, myth, fictional to factual
Come where means lies, and fact is truth
Is it a true story?
Past, unrelated to present and future
Magic is waiting to be revealed
From fear, tears to laughter
Need our remembering and creating
To be heard, for the story to survive
To listen carefully is to protect
But to protect is to destroy
From mouth to ear, body to body,
hand to hand, The speech is seen
To be heard,smelled tasted and touched.
Truth is when it is itself no longer
In speaking, listening and use of imagination
To produce their full effect words must indeed
Memories to be unfold
truth is when it
is itself no
longer
mother always
has a mother
a lifetime story.
i owe that to
you, her
and her.
to validate my voice
to evoke her and sing
to produce their
full effect.
my story, no doubt
is me,
but it is also
no doubt
older than me.
the vision of a madwoman
truth does not make sense
it exceeds meaning
and exceeds measure.
dead time, dead
words, dead
tongues. turned stone.
"Difference is not Difference to some ears, but awkwardness or incompleteness."
Master is not Master to some ears, but caring or nurturing.
Freedom is not Freedom to some ears, but blindness or ignorance.
Identity is not Identity to some ears, but materialized or given.
Opinion is not Opinion to some ears, but fact or truth.
The end is not the End to some ears, the beginning or infinity.
Your language is my language
But your truth is not my truth.
The universe slowly unravels
Its secrets to the writer.
The eternal silence of our humanity
Can no longer be.
The community is rising because
People want the truth.
The presence of our ancestors
Is becoming too strong, learn.
Difference As Uniqueness
Or special identity
Both limiting and deceiving
I am me
but who am i?
You cannot be me
but who will you be?
Are we truly different
You and I, i and me
We are who we are
And thats all we can be
Within the borders of your homeland
Urging to keep your way of life
A kind of peverted logic
Try to stay free
Try to be who you want to be
Don't let them take it away
You are you
Not them
In this chain and continuum,
I am but one link
I am one in a million
I am me
I remain the same
Do you?
Perverted logic
Erase and urge to keep life
Keep them, but away
How can I keep this?
Try to survive but hold on
Have future and past...?
Reveal and relate
Past, present future
Story... history
Wait to see and tell
Watch and wait to see the world
Connecting us, them
Suzanne Pharr had me scared of what I was about to read with her foreword. I was unsure how I was possibly going to find interest and a connection with the author. Beginning with the metaphor of a mountain I continued through the first few pages and I instantly was able to obtain an interest much to my suprise. I was able to relate to her narrative in a personal way along with finding understanding in her message, although I'm not sure Eli Clare would agree with my opinion of Exile and Pride I did enjoy it.
In the beginning Eli Clare recalls the climbing of Mount Adams with her friend Adrianne. Clare mentions Adrianne's unconscious mental defiance of the "cript" stories". Clare scripts on page nine "You made the right choice when you turned around". Adrianne never understated Clare's ability as a person. In fact Clare and Adrianne often talked of hiking trips and before they even reached the bottom of the mountain they were discussing their next trip to Mount Adams. I relate to Adrianne's desensitization to the physical disability of Eli Clare. My sister has cerebral palsy but yet I never recall extending my hand to help her. In fact people make things more difficult in helping her. She tells me it throws off her balance. That's why I thought the descriptions of the different tactics in walking she took to climb the mountain.
Clare is aggravated at the way she is mentally labeled with all of these seperate identities and life makes it impossible for her to connect one another. The seperate identities place her in a personal exile whether it is the past identity of a tomboy from the lumbering town of Port Orford or the identity she has become as urbanized queer. She is unable to find acceptance of her sexuality in a rural area nor is she able to be present for her deteriorated past home. She has lost the childhood moments of running through the woods and smelling fresh cut lumber. Even though she has lost those moments the knowledge she gained about trees and the life cycle of salmon has become apart of who she is in her queer identity. Still the identity or home she gains from being queer exiles her from the home or identity she felt from Port Orford. "But is it exile?" Clare asks. In leaving her small town of Port Orford she can find relief in her queerness and move past the awful sexual abuse she endured. She won't see the men who did unspeakable things to her and in a rural area ahd won't be the local gossip if she holds hands with another woman.
"We decide to climb that mountain, or make a pact that our children will climb it" Clare dictates an ingenious metaphor which explains basic human nature. People set goals in life and when these goals become unaccomplished or distant we seek to impose them on future generations. I have yet to become a musician and the day that I become one is not in the near future, but I know that I will relay the importance of learning to play an instrument on my children. I have reached higher education in hopes of creating a trail up the mountain for my future generations. If I become stuck in the "middle-class scramble" as Clare calls it and do not reach the summit I hope to indulge my children in the fact of moving further in their endeavors to reach the summit. Eli Clare asks, "Did my parents become middle-class in their scramble?" (p36) However Eli Clare's summit was a world where her different ability did not only label her with her inability but also label her as heroic. Her summit included urban improvement for gays and lesbians. Her summit was conquering her exile. When all of this circulated her body would become home. She climbed the mountain to conquer her physical ability and gain her mental summit.
Clare wants people to look at her without pity, that I can do. Clare also would also like us to not see her as heroic, but when she writes I find that hard to do. Exile and Pride was metaphoric narrative for the way life goes and the equilibrium imbalance many people endure. That may be because I am a person who would rather pay no attention to the very details Clare work to protect. I like to look at the more general idea or the big picture. The hunt for the summit will never end but if a person doesn't try they will end up at the bottom which Clare says for her would be the nursing home. I think its the nursing home for all of us. I must say on a pompous note to Eli Clare that she is not alone no one reaches their summit and escapes their exile. Everyone must endure the imbalance of their different identities whether it be single-mother, waitress, black, or ex-victim. Eli Clare you are the same as everyone else is that what you wanted to hear?
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