"At one time in my life, from the time I was 7 until about 13, I didn’t speak. I only spoke to my brother. The reason I didn’t speak, I had been molested and I told the name of the molester to my brother, who told it to my family. The man was put in jail for one day and night, and released. And about three days later, the police came over to my mother’s mother’s house, and told her that the man had been found dead, and it seemed he had been kicked to death. They made that pronouncement in my earshot, and I thought my voice killed the man. And so it’s better not to speak. So for six years I didn’t speak.
"I was sent back to my father’s mother who was raising me in Arkansas, and my grandmother said to me, ‘Sister, Mama don’t care what these people say that you must be an idiot or you must be a moron because you can’t speak. Mama don’t care. Mama know when you and the good Lord are ready, sister, you’re gonna teach all over the world.’"
— Maya Angelou
But oddly, it didn’t even shake me. I read the rejection on the subway. I smiled. Today was, all things considered, an excellent day. That is the startling thing. I wonder if what helps is that I’ve been in regular contact with what I might now believe is the Loving Giver of Dreams. And that the Giver’s supply of possibility is endless. If this is delusion, I don’t care. This delusion will probably save my life.
I’ve come to wonder whether this is one perk of a faith in a Being that loves you in ways everyone else failed: the understanding that every “no” is simply a “not this, but something better your unimaginative human brain can’t conceive of yet.” I plan to happily test this. I’ll let you know in 10 years whether 2014 Eugenia was full of shit.
A feminist intervention. A poetry journal at meme speed. An attempt to give the internet what it wanted. A critique and a joke. A joke of a critique? A lot of fun. Not enough. A pop-up virtual community that published every submission it received. A stocking stuffer advertised entirely via social…