‘The personal is
political,’ a central tenet of the women’s movement of 1960s and 70s, is as
true today as it was then, but rarely has it been expressed with such
eloquence.
In the first of this collection of essays, Zoë Brigley
describes finding solace in the bleak indifference of the Utah landscape after
the second of four miscarriages endured in an ‘unsympathetic medical system.’ She refuses to be ‘silenced by shame.’ In a
society where abortion is a political battleground she reflects ‘Somehow in
writing this I have moved from the sadness I feel about the miscarriages to the
right of people not to be pregnant.' She continues, ‘The way I see it though,
it is all bound up because both are a source of anxiety for Western culture.
What do they do with the woman who miscarries, or with the woman who chooses
not to have a baby at all?’
Brigley gives illuminating insights into living in Trump’s
America, in a swing state where she canvasses for the democrats. As an
Assistant Professor at the Ohio State University, in an unfamiliar classroom she must routinely check out the exits and
plan how it could be secured in the event of a violent attack. When a man drove
his car into a crowd on campus, then started slashing people with a knife, she is
at home watching on television as the car park she uses is being stormed by a
SWAT team and familiar buildings are sealed off with tape. Afterwards she must deal with the students’ trauma.
As the mother of two little boys she describes how children
are drilled in what to do in case of an armed intruder. Outside her son’s elementary school is a sign stating that no
unauthorised firearms are allowed inside the building, and there is a camera at
the door where parents can be buzzed in. She describes how there is ‘something
peculiar about American Halloween’ where ghoulish fantasies are played out
alongside real life violence. In Pittsburgh a man kills eleven people in a
synagogue, while participants in ‘fright house’ theme parks and ‘haunted houses’
wear swastikas while they are entertained with ‘simulations of the most
appalling violence.’ Brigley writes: ‘The fright house tells us that violence
is an illusion, or an act, but the fright house lies. The fright house is
America.'
But paradoxically this is a book of hope and courage. Zoe
Brigley is ‘an activist, an educator, a creative writer and a survivor.’ She
refuses to believe that violence is inevitable and works to challenge violence,
hate crimes and discrimination against anyone who does not conform to a supposed
‘norm.’ She believes at the root of it all is a breakdown of communication, ‘an
act of violent refusal' to recognise the humanity and to empathise with an individual perceived as ‘different.’
She argues that writing, and the sharing of writing, is a
way forward. She cites Maggie Smith’s poem ‘Good Bones,’ which ‘seeks hope in
the face of bleakness’ and which went viral in the summer of 2016, as an
example of the power of poetry in ‘dealing with the dark undercurrents of
society that we find hard to face.’ She suggests that ‘human beings are born
into uncertainty yet human culture does its best to ignore this very fact.’ But
poetry ‘encourages us to embrace uncertainty,’ and to empathise with, and
recognise in ourselves, frailty and vulnerability.
She draws on her own experience of an abusive relationship
to help others, encouraging students to come to terms with violence through
creative writing. While ‘confessional poetry has its place,’ she suggests, ‘dream language, symbols and surreal stories –
as a means to talk about the difficult or troubling moments from one’s life’
can be liberating. As Emily Dickinson wrote, ’Tell all the Truth but tell it
slant.’
The classroom, Brigley argues, ‘has the potential to be a
life changing, transformative space for all those involved,’ and she reminds us
that the #metoo movement started in a classroom setting. At a speech given at a
United Nations campaign Herforshe
event at the Ohio State University, March 3rd 2018, she told the audience: ‘So this is where we have come so far, finding
each other, finding empathy and a kind of collective voice, a kind of
collective power.’ But, she went on, it is not enough just to empathise with ‘white
celebrities,’ there must be more practical support to protect the most
vulnerable in our society, such as the #timesup movement which offers financial
aid to women on low incomes who seek redress for workplace harassment or assault. For
those already discriminated against, whether because of their gender,
sexuality, race, or poverty, are the most likely to experience violence and the
least likely to have the means to deal with it. But there is a sense of hope, ‘For
we have the language now both words and images – through which to express what
freedom might look like.'
As an immigrant to the United States some might tell her to ‘go
home and sort her own country out.’ She is both a pioneering voice in the U.S. and a
role model for young people in post industrial South Wales. She reflects on how
she got here from there, considering teenage influences which include David
Bowie, ‘Breakfast at Tiffanys’ and Courbet. There are tender and tragic family
stories, and many sassy women. A companion to these essays is her poetry
collection Hand & Skull where many themes addressed in these essays are expressed
beautifully with luminous imagery, ‘dream language, symbols and surreal stories.’
About the reviewer
Since gaining an MA in Creative Writing from Loughborough University what seems like a lifetime ago, Sue Mackrell’s poetry, short fiction and reviews have appeared in locations and publications as diverse as Leicester public toilets (an Everybody’s Reading initiative!) to Agenda Poetry. She is enjoying seeing the world anew through her four grandchildren.
