TMR Editors’ Prize
- We’re Still Here: A TMR Staff Photo ca. 1993
- Everything Old is New Again: What the Publishing World Can Learn from the Rediscovered Love of Vinyl
- Stephan and the Rejection Giant: Plotting Grand Literary Successes in the Midst of Numerically Disastrous Odds
- Saying Goodbye to the Missouri Review
- The Dialectic of The Missouri Review
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Current Issue: Summer 2015
Current issue: Summer 2015
Three of the people pictured in this group photo have worked together for more than twenty years—that’s over a thousand weeks, five thousand days, 45,000 hours, three presidents, eight Bond movies, nine versions of Windows, countless bad haircuts and fashion trends, and 80 issues of TMR.
Off hand, I have no idea how many manuscripts I’ve read, reviews and blogs I’ve written, events I’ve planned, AWPs I attended, archives I’ve visited, “found text” and visual art features I’ve written, cover artists I’ve found, and junk mail pieces I’ve sent. It has been one long seamless buzz of activity.
Like many careers in the arts, when you are away from the office, you are never really away from the office. You are always thinking about and looking for possible content. Art galleries and museums offer endless possibilities for visual features. I found Dadaist Hannah Hoch and Pop Art bad boy Martin Kippenberger in Berlin, artwork for our covers by Alex Colville, Jana Sterbak and Anthony Tremmaglia in Canada, and letters by Jelly Roll Morton, rare turn of the century Mardi Gras costume designs, and surrealist photographs by Clarence John Laughlin in New Orleans. And so on. When I travel, I dig, snoop, poke around, and consequently I find literary and artistic goodies.
So what can I say about twenty years in the business? I’ve gained a lot of practical experience. For one thing, I know how to deal with private collectors, curators, gallerists, and archivists. I am no longer too shy to call up and negotiate the cost of publishing a famous artist or writer. Students laugh when I say this, but dead artists are impossible. They are the hardest to work with unless they’ve been gone more than seventy years, which then makes them way easier than the living.
But like any profession in the arts there is no mastery. As a writer I am besieged with the usual questions and moments of self-doubt: Have I really been doing this for twenty years? Shouldn’t it be easier? Why isn’t the prose better? Inversely as a reader I am often struck with a sense of wonder. How did they do that? Where did that extraordinary idea come from? Wow, what a voice.
I never dread coming to work. Every day is different. Fiction, poetry, and nonfiction submissions roll in on-line and a smattering come through the mail. So there’s an ever replenishing source of new material to read. Each semester we have a group of interns, some new and some returning, to assist us with our various projects and offer up their youthful perspectives. The rhythm around the office is typically quite mornings and bustling afternoons.
These days the group photos are put up on-line rather than reproduced as an eight-by-ten glossy. The one posted here is a rare memento that proves we were once young. It also reveals that I have a terrible memory. Out of the other eleven people in the picture, I can only recall the names of three while our assistant managing editor Dedra Earl can identify all but two.
Hey, so if you are in this picture, email us. We’d love to know where you are and what you’re doing.
Everything Old is New Again: What the Publishing World Can Learn from the Rediscovered Love of Vinyl
“Don’t throw the past away
You might need it some rainy day
Dreams can come true again
When everything old is new again”
I recalled the lyrics of Peter Allen’s song the other day when I was in Vinyl Renaissance looking for a few LPs for our up-coming summer launch party at the Vault, a downtown bar. In celebration of the issue’s theme, “Defy,” I decided to go with a rock ‘n’ roll theme and bought one of those all-in-one record players, inviting everyone to bring their favorite albums. At our editorial meeting I told our interns to bring a few LPS, too.
“You know what those are, don’t you?” I cracked.
The students looked at me crossly. Evidently many of them have extensive record collections. I was not aware of the extent of the renaissance in vinyl. The numbers are astounding. According to a recent Wall Street Journal Article, “The Biggest Comeback of 2014: Vinyl Records,” over 8 million vinyl records were sold in 2014. Fifteen factories in the country that still press records are struggling to keep up with the demand that promises to surge by 49% in 2015.
I chatted with the record store owner. “You really have your finger on the pulse,” I said, meaning it. I never would have guessed that young people would fall in love with the feel of placing the needle in the groove of a record and even notice the superior sound quality it delivers.
He told me how his wife had at first thought he was crazy. Now she recognizes his genius. The store is doing great. The real challenge is finding enough inventory.
While flipping through the bins of records I once owned and discarded, I pondered then and later over dinner with my husband whether the publishing industry could learn a thing or two from the resurgence of vinyl. We wondered whether some literary magazines were too quick to do away with the print version and become exclusively on-line. Have there been too many fierce and ferocious fights over the e-books rights? Have people packed up and dispensed with their books in favor of scrolling through the electronic pages on Kindle? It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to predict that eBooks will never make print books obsolete. According to Claire Fallon’s piece in the Huffington Post, print books outsold eBooks in the first half of 2014, with hardcovers and paperbacks making up 67% of book sales. So perhaps the tide is already turning. Like vinyl, hardbacks are making a comeback.
So I guess I would say, think before you toss. I left Vinyl Renaissance having spent $25 on records I used to own, though I felt rather hip walking down the street with the albums tucked in the crook of my arm.
Stephan and the Rejection Giant: Plotting Grand Literary Successes in the Midst of Numerically Disastrous Odds
Dear Distinguished Publisher,
I, Stephan Elcalabaza, perhaps need no introduction, but for formality’s sake I will concede. When I was born the doctor took two looks at me (one simply wasn’t enough) and immediately retired. What more, after all, could he hope to accomplish beyond this (in your presence I would say this while gently patting my chest, so you know by “this” I mean me).
I am Whitman in a tutu shooting iambs at the moon, yet you dare to wonder where my poems are housed! My publications are breath and bone and blood and warm air rising celestial and free. My publications are brethren to wood and rock, sistren to the sky and sea, descended of the stars, and godlike iridescent.
With that said the poems herein are culled from my latest collection Disagreeable Verse, which is likely (if they have any sense) to be published by Gris Lobo press later this year (probably by November, my birthday month, again if they have any sense). My previous collections Roses in the Plummer’s Crack, Jackson Goes a-Hollering, Reach Right Over and Squeeze, Balls Balanced on a Feline’s Wicked Whiskers, Rickshaw Wonderland, Over the Moon, and Biscuits for Jennifer have won (or should have won) numerous awards (including but not limited to the Jeffrey Murphey Brown Award for Curmudgeonly Sonnets and the Willis O’Neil Award for Poetic Excellence Under Extreme Duress).
Three years from now I win the Pulitzer. Three years and a day from now I will be eating spaghetti with butter and melted cheddar cheese out of my Pulitzer. Impossible you say? Already my microwave is purring! Already the butter is melting! Already my noodle-maker is requisitioning flour! What more is there? Only the Pulitzer. Three years.
Enjoy and may the Baza be ever in your favor.
Obviously there are some potential editorial and logical pitfalls in this copy of my friend Stephan Elcalabaza’s cover letter for a recent round of submissions. But leaving those aside, I sometimes wish my own attitude toward submitting were half as assured as Stephan’s. Stephan laughs in the face of rejection. Or anything short of grandiose success, for that matter. I take a slightly different approach.
My bio is pretty standard: written in the third person, it includes where I live, what I do, my relevant educational credentials, past publications and little more.
As for expectations, unlike Stephan, I have grown to expect rejection.
In the last year, I have submitted a total of 84 different poems in 117 individual submissions.
So far this year, I have been rejected for publication 78 times.
The 84 different poems I have submitted have on average been rejected at least four times each, with a couple being rejected as many as ten times.
Between early December 2014 and March 17, 2015, I received 28 consecutive rejections from literary journals and publishers. One weekend in March, I was rejected five separate times in a thirty-hour period.
In the first two days after I started writing this blog, I was rejected by three literary journals and one anthology.
I carry on. Currently I have 56 poems actively submitted to 35 journals and publishers, and have a list of over 100 publishers to potentially submit to in the future.
I keep accounts of all this data and more in two electronic documents stored on my computer. The first of these is a simple Word document with running lists of which poems I have submitted and where I have sent them. The list is broken into three major categories: active submissions (in black), rejections (in red), and accepted work (accepted poems in blue and bolded). This document also includes the list of places I plan to submit work in the future, including dates submissions are accepted, how many poems are allowable per submission, whether a submission fee is required, and any specific requirements or aesthetic proclivities unique to each particular publication.
The second document is an Excel spreadsheet broken into two parts: 1) a list of all the poems I’ve ever submitted and, in the corresponding rows, a list of every place these poems are currently submitted; 2) a Rejection Chart! that lists every poem I’ve ever had rejected and who has rejected them (a grand total of 341 individual poem rejections according to the running tally located in cell 1B).
Yes, this is all a bit insane.
I wasn’t always like this.
When I started trying to publish last May, I spent a good amount of time selecting the most appropriate contests and journals (as you are supposed to) and painstakingly attempting to match my work to fit each venue (again, as you are supposed to). I was blissfully hopeful. Eagerly awaiting inevitable acceptance, I feared only that all the poems I had simultaneously submitted would end up being accepted by multiple parties (an irrational fear some publishers’ submission guidelines seem eager to encourage in you as a submitter). By the end of the summer, I had sent work to a whopping seven publications!
Then the rejections started. Though it took over six months, I was finally rejected by all seven of the venues I’d sent to over the summer. Gradually my game plan changed. I found myself repeatedly scanning the AWP calendar of submission deadlines and applied to handfuls and eventually full dozens of publications.
On the flip side, reading for the Missouri Review has allowed me to see manuscript rejections from a different perspective. I’ve had the opportunity to read other writers’ work and done my fair share of rejecting a manuscript myself (a couple hundred submissions by my count) or suggesting that one of my colleagues reject a submission. Naturally, as a reader, I know that rejecting manuscripts is unavoidable, as we have to eventually winnow the vast quantity of submissions we receive down to a select handful for publication. TMR, for example, publishes less than one half of one percent (.5%, or 1/200) of its submitters, and rejections I have received from other journals lead me to believe this number is not uniquely low.
To put that number in perspective, imagine you’re back in elementary school again and it happens to be the day everyone gets to guess how many jelly beans are in Principle Story’s gallon-sized glass jar. The rules are simple: whoever ends up guessing closest to the actual number of jelly beans in the jar wins the jar and all its contents. Let’s say there are roughly 200 kids, kindergarten through fifth grade, in your school and each student in the school hazards a guess. You also—after meticulous calculation and thoughtful consideration—hazard a guess: 9,642. It’s 9,642. Now, having guessed, your chance of actually winning the much-coveted jelly bean jar roughly corresponds to the statistical chance of someone being featured in The Missouri Review upon submission. Of course, there are those like Timothy Blithers and Suzy O’Simmons who guess 17 and 1,000,045 respectively. But for the most part, the guesses fall more or less within the range of plausibility. And, still, only one of the 200 plus students in your school will end up winning all the 4,318.5 jelly beans in the jar (alas, your guess of 9,642 is off by over 5,000 beans; it’s unfortunately not you, sorry).
Jelly beans or no, however you look at it, rejection is part, and a rather large part, of the nature of publishing. Yet, despite the bleakness of the numbers game, and my self-perceived submission mania, I continue to submit, not just because I want to be published, but also because I believe the process is worthwhile.
Beyond the simple, inescapable dynamics of publishing—acceptance or, much more likely, rejection—submitting encourages something of a conversation. For a writer, submitting work guarantees that your work is read by somebody, encourages you to write with a real, live, human reader in mind, and provides you an audience —however detached and critical. And for the reader working through the slush pile, reading manuscripts allows you to peek at a cross-section of the writers publishing (or attempting to publish) right now, to glimpse unique, never-before-seen details of our present literary landscape, and then to respond.
Apart from the simple binary of acceptance/rejection, the submission process is comprised of a multitude of writer-to-reader exchanges. And no matter how frustrated a particular writer’s ambitions or how jaded a particular reader may be, these exchanges are meaningful. They are the very building blocks of successful literary publishing and the essence of shared literary experiences.
Simply put, to submit is to offer your work to another: yes in judgment, but also for the simple bliss and terror of sharing, and to read a submission from a fellow writer is to accept this offering. And this simple exchange—writer to reader, writer to reader, writer to reader, again and again—persists whether your work is published or never gets beyond the first read.
In the end, rejection or no, I like to imagine that the process of submitting work is one way to bridge the loneliness of what it can mean to be a writer. At least, it offers me the hope that such loneliness might be bridged—that my work can someday be appreciated and relished for all its worth and, with some good luck, even more.
As for Stephan, when I tell him, in my humble editorial opinion, he should probably tone down his bio a bit and embrace the certain uncertainty of the publication gambit more fully, he sets fire to a manuscript of my most recent poems. “It’s all about the passion,” he informs me as he tosses the burning manuscript in my direction. “If it ain’t too hot to hold, broseph, why pass it on?”
Back in 2003, I moved from Boston to St. Louis to start graduate school. If there is a clear moment in my life that I can point to and say “this changed everything” (and I’m not sure that I can), then that would be the moment. When I left Ohio State in 2000, freshly armed with my BA in Literature, I wanted to be a writer. And even though taking time off from school was sorta the plan, it was really after I spent three years working in the private sector, and I came to Missouri for graduate school, that things changed in permanent way. MFA program, River Styx, Missouri Review. Twelve years have passed since I drove around a bend and saw the St. Louis Arch, crossed the Mississippi, and my so called writing life blossomed.
By now, of course, you have very likely heard that I have resigned as managing editor, and that today is my last day with the Missouri Review. This weekend, I’ll head home to Ohio to visit family for a few weeks, then up to Yellow Springs to teach in the Antioch Writers’ Workshop, then, finally, I head to D.C.
Why the move? Here’s why:
Yup. I gotta go see about a girl.
The last few weeks have been pretty hectic, and I’ve had very little time—none, in fact—to reflect on my time in Missouri. I am staring at an eight hour car ride to Cincinnati on Saturday, so perhaps then, when I’m coming up on Effingham, Illinois, I’ll have more coherent ideas about the meaning of these last twelve years.
“I don’t know what I think until I write it down” has been attributed to Joan Didion, though a variation on the same idea can also be attributed to Flannery O’Connor (“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”) and both are saying essentially the same thing.
Over the years, I’ve read other people’s posts about leaving an organization, and often, it’s a list of accomplishments and a bunch of thank yous. Which is fine. A lot has happened since I came here. We had an old website that looked like this. Our submission system was an Outlook mailbox. We’ve published roughly two hundred authors in our pages since 2010. We rebooted, and in many ways began, our social media presence, including this blog, which has been an outlet for our thoughts on what’s happening in publishing without being reactionary or dull. My blog posts have, I hope, shed light on the literary magazine world and the process that our editorial staff goes through because transparency and misunderstanding continues to make the writer/editor/reader relationship sometimes becomes combative when a simple explanation is all that is needed.
And, of course, I am grateful to Speer Morgan for hiring me and being a mentor and friend. This staff—Evelyn Somers, Dedra Earl, and Kris Somerville—is wonderful, and I’m proud to have been their colleague. Two dozen graduate editors have worked here, and their contribution has been invaluable, with ideas like Literature on Lockdown and Working Writers Series (Alison Balaskovits), building our Twitter and Facebook voice (Rob Foreman), shaping our poetry in print and online (Marc McKee, Katy Didden, Austin Segrest, Chun Ye). There are undergraduate interns and office assistants that had been here for more than just two semesters, and seeing Sara Strong and Maura Lammers and Kyle Burton and Brad Babendir over the course of their college career has been amazing.
Once I start listing names, I feel I need to include everyone, and that would turn this into a blog post that is solely a list of hundreds of names. And I’ve only mentioned the staff so far: I haven’t even gotten to the writers, who make this magazine exist by sending us their work, or the editors and writers I’ve met from the litmag world who make this work so gratifying. It was at AWP Denver, when I was brand new, that I marched up to Andrea Drygas (Ploughshares), Cara Adams (Southern Review), and Tyler Meier (Kenyon Review), to name just three editors, and asked them for all the advice and guidance they could give me about how to run a magazine.
Those three, by the way, all have left their respective magazines. Managing editors don’t stay long!
How can I encapsulate these six years? How can I tell you about having drinks with Phong Nguyen and Daniel Stolar and Amina Gautier at a rooftop bar in Chicago? Or about Matt Sailor inviting me down to Atlanta to meet Georgia State students? Or when my book was accepted for publication? Or when my students get accepted to MFA programs? Or when Ashley Ford bearhugged me? Or playing basketball at AWP? Or having no one show up to my first reading my hometown (true story)? Or meeting people for the first time after talking to them on Twitter for months? Or going to San Francisco and Seattle and Minneapolis for the first time in my life? Or all the hundreds of other moments, too great to list here, too private, too personal, too numerous?
I just don’t know. But it’s all because of this writing life.
I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid that when I drive away from this job and this city on Saturday, that a part of the writing community that has meant so much to me for the last twelve years is going to forget me. That my contribution has stopped, that my work is over, especially since I don’t know if my next step is going to be direct involvement in the writing world in any sort of public way.
But, in person, talking to my friends this week, I feel buoyant. I’ve moved around before, and the relationships that matter always thrive, no matter the distance. It was true when I left Ohio, when I left Boston, when I left St. Louis, and it will be true again when I leave Missouri. My relationships are important to me, and while there is so much I want to say, I think this piece that summarizes an essay by Andrew Sullivan says everything better than I could. If you know me, really know me, then you know how meaningful my friendships are, and how important you’ve been, and continue to be, in my life.
I’m thrilled to be heading to D.C. Moving has been a drain on my time, and once I’m settled, I can get back to my novel (revision #843!) and new stories, and reading books again. Being in a city is going to be invigorating, and Politics & Prose is a short walk from my new place, and I will be living again in a city with NBA basketball (okay, look: that’s exciting to me, all right?). I won’t be hard to find.
This is where I say something smart or witty or deep or insightful or something as a way to close out this final blog post. As TMR’s managing editor, I’ve written 207 posts, some lengthy and some short, and right now, I’m at a loss as to how end this. Because it doesn’t really feel like the end, and it doesn’t really feel like the beginning, and I refuse to say something corny about journeys and all that. I will miss this place and this magazine and this role. But I’m ready to go. And I know I’ll see you again soon.
Follow Michael on Twitter: @mpnye
When I started my internship at the Missouri Review, I didn’t know what to expect. Despite my “superlative” qualifications of being able to quote both J.D. Salinger and Jhumpa Lahiri on the fly, being a self-proclaimed expert in feminist critical theory, and having the ability to read for a whole day on the couch while only being sustained by water and a plethora of junk food, there was little my ardent reading did to prepare me in knowing about details of publishing that were vital to a literary magazine. Before starting the internship, a multitude of questions would barrage my brain within a perpetual series of how’s : How does a literary magazine actually function? How does the Missouri Review make decisions about what pieces to include? How does the world of publishing differ from the world of a writer? How does publishing and writing intersect with each other? How do you become a managing editor of a literary magazine?
Luckily, I write this blog post after being an intern at TMR for almost three months now and can assure you that I have a much stronger understanding of literary magazines and publishing, but I didn’t gain this understanding just by experiencing interning at a literary magazine, as merely witnessing how a literary magazine gets published doesn’t necessarily mean you are learning about the process or anything about the industry of publishing for that matter. I was able to learn more about publishing, literary magazines, and TMR as a whole because of how my experience was shaped into one that questioned and explored the effects of every decision made. The importance of not only answering the “how” of a question, but also the “why” of a question was emphasized to me through the surprising intersectionality between my experiences at TMR and a feminist theory piece I had recently read by Shulamith Firestone titled “The Dialectic of Sex.”
For those that are well versed in the words of Firestone, I am in no means suggesting that TMR is a radically liberal magazine, that hopes to use the ideology of Marx and Engels to overthrow the patriarchy and create a society free from the shackles of sexism–but oddly enough, they are similar in how they both approach their goals in a dialectic way.
Firestone proposed that the first step in eradicating sexism was to change the way people approached getting rid of it. She urged that in order to change people’s approach, the intellectual patterns of Marx and Engels should be adopted—not because of the way they viewed the economy and definitely not because of the inherent sexism within their ideas, but because, to quote Firestone herself, “they attempted for the first time to put historical and cultural change on a real basis, to trace the development of economic classes to organic causes. By understanding thoroughly the mechanics of history, they hoped to show how to master it.”
Marx and Engels not only demonstrated how there were flaws in economic systems, but by looking back onto what parts of the past created this system and what elements of the present sustain it, they were able to critically think about the issue at hand and explain why what they viewed to be this flawed structure existed, bringing them a step closer in explaining how to get rid of it. Firestone also adopted this method to not only explain how sexism existed, but why it did in the hopes that this finer understanding would make it easier to remove sexism and create an inclusive society. In turn, I believe that TMR embodies this dialectic method by not only showing how decisions are made at a literary magazine and in the field of publishing, but why they are made in the hopes of creating a more successful magazine.
Along with reading manuscripts, my time in the internship class of TMR has been spent cultivating and analyzing a series of questions, as well as answers to those questions, in order to better understand how and why the magazine functions in the way that it does:
Why was this the certain cover for an issue? Aesthetics is of course a factor, but also to create something that is timeless, affordable, appealing, and that relates to the content of the issue. The analysis of a cover always sparks more questions, and makes one think: Was this the best choice for the cover? What parts of the cover’s design worked well, and which parts didn’t work so well? How can we learn from the parts of this current cover that didn’t work so well to improve the choices made for the next issue’s cover?
Are online submission fees inherently classist? It is classist in the sense that having a submission fee assumes that all people submitting to the magazine have the funds to create a bank account and have a debit or credit card, which isn’t the case. Despite this, part of me feels that this fee is necessary to support the magazine, but that feeling brings up another question: Is this three dollar fee really necessary to support the magazine? Would we be able to create a system where the online fee is taken away for a couple of months, in order to create a time of the year where people who can’t afford the online fee are able to submit, yet still have the rest of the year have paid submissions so the magazine can gain revenue? What problems exist within that proposed system?
Why does VIDA matter in the world of publishing? VIDA is important in the field of publishing as it highlights how difficult it is for women to get published. Doing this forces literary magazines and publishing agencies to asses themselves and see if they are publishing predominantly more male writers than female writers. As an intern who reviews manuscripts, it makes me question if I am doing the same thing, and makes me more observant when reviewing submissions. It also allows me to acknowledge the sexism that exists in the field of publishing, and wonder why it exists. Is there something intrinsically unsatisfactory with the way females write that makes their writing get rejected, some deeper psychology behind it all? Are some publishing agencies purposefully rejecting female writers? Is it fair to accept certain writers over others in order to diversify the literature that is published by literary magazines and publishing firms?
As evidenced by my answers to the questions above, some questions just lead to more questions and contemplation instead of a concrete answer, yet I would argue that the analysis and existence of these questions, instead of the concrete answers themselves, has been the most fulfilling way to learn about TMR and the field of publishing. Analyzing and attempting to answer these questions with my fellow interns creates an enriching learning experience that not only identifies aspects of the magazine, but explains why they are there, and generates discussions that debate whether certain aspects of the magazine should continue to exist. These discussions are important and are what allowed me to notice the parallel between what I was discussing at TMR and with Firestone’s writing. Just as Firestone wanted to spark a dialectic conversation of the origins and perpetuations of sexism in order to create an inclusive society, these discussions within my TMR internship class promote a dialectic conversation on how aspects of the magazine originated and why they continue to exist in an effort to make a magazine that creates a positive impact for its society of readers. Whether it be discussing the design of a current issue’s cover, highlighting sexism in the publishing industry, or identifying ways that our magazine may cause barriers for certain people that wish to submit their work, it reminds me how we all as readers, writers, and individuals should recognize and positively shape the impact that our writing and actions have on society.
I realize positively shaping our impact so that it benefits society is a huge call to action. Do I hope for all literary magazines, readers, and writers to band together in an effort to eradicate the microagressions of society they may subtly perpetuate? No, not necessarily. But should we all at least think about the idea? Think about the deeper impacts of our actions in something as seemingly harmless as publishing a literary magazine, writing a new piece, or reading without analyzing the content of the story? Yes, absolutely yes.
I am not famous, or important, or even particularly unique. But I do get emails from writers asking to interview me, though not about my art, which I would be happy to discuss. Instead, these writers want to interview me about my life and my family history in order to feed their own creative projects, particularly when they have a Gypsy woman character who shares some superficial similarities with me. The first time I received such a request, I’ll admit, I was terrified, then flattered, then terrified again when I realized this request comes with an artistic and cultural responsibility I am not prepared to undertake, and as such, necessitates a careful response.
Maybe there is a place for the gloss of my story, just so you might understand, but this is a cautious tale with not too many admissions, because after all, this is not my interview. Like many Roma, I can trace the brutality and desperation I’ve lived through directly to generations of oppression and hopelessness. The Roma have inherited trauma just as we have inherited our skin tone, our multi-colored eyes, and our family trades. On the surface, I am a living, breathing stereotype: I work as a fortune teller, dancer, and energy healer just as the women in my Romani family did as far back as we can remember. I learned these trades at my grandmother’s knee, sitting on the floor of her trailer, parked in a rough-and-tumble trailer-park that used to flood every spring. My mother and I would wade through the dirty, snake-riddled water with thick black trash bags pulled up to our chests just to get to her front steps. I slosh through, cursing at those fat water snakes that darted through the muck-silken ripples, always hoping I’d have to fight one just to make my mother and grandmother proud of my heroism and courage. That never happened, but I can shoot and knife-fight, I can track an animal, work the family trades, and I’ve travelled the world, and though they may not always understand me, my family says they are proud. So far, on paper, I am a Gypsy dream.
But I was also a quiet girl who spent her time in the library instead of at recess; I was tested and determined to have a high IQ and college-level reading and writing skills before I was 10; I attended Hollins University, an all-women’s college where I won an award for poetry; I’ve been published in a national magazine; nominated for a Pushcart; I taught college English during my MFA; and I’m currently finishing my thesis after taking a leave of absence to care for ailing family members, because that’s what Gypsy girls do, take care of their families. None of this fits the mold that gadjé culture made for me, but everything I do is what a Gypsy girl does because I am a Gypsy girl. But like many Roma, I have been reduced to the outsiders’ idea of what a Gypsy is. So I was singled out in school and pelted with rocks until bloody on my first day, so I was given detention for “witchcraft” and “giving the evil eye,” so I was sexually harassed so often that I was absent about half of every school year, so I was raped and beaten more times than I can count since I was too young to know what such things meant, so I was taught to use my body to get what I needed to survive because my body was expendable like so much garbage, so I was told by my friends’ mothers that I was lucky I was pretty, because how else would a girl like me get through life?
When I was a child, I expected I would grow up to be Victor Hugo’s Esmeralda, a sex object abused by the men who owned her because they wanted her, because her body was not her own, and ultimately destined for tragedy. I expected this would happen unless by some miracle I could write myself out of that destiny and into a different life. So I wrote, and wrote, even when I was told over and over that only my body had currency, even when I was told this by a few grumbling colleagues in my MFA, at which I had earned a place with my work and not my bikini. Even then, I wrote with the kind and meaningful support of my advisor, professors, and peers, and always with the fire I swallowed long ago. I gave blood to the Esmeralda archetype that was foisted upon me, knowing full-well that Esmeralda danced her way into the flames by choice, if you can call it choice. I knew that all of Esmeralda’s power and all of her undoing came from her fuckability, the hell-fire of desire she inspired in the white men who wanted to possess and break her, and did.
Most of the people who write to me are just that, white men who want to take my story and make it theirs, snuff-out my voice and write me an edgy elegy from the ash. They want to use my story to validate their fantasies of a genuine Gypsy girl. I have no interest in endorsing any of that noise because I write against it. I write. This is not to say that I truly think the people who write to me asking for these kinds of personal interviews consciously have such nefarious intentions—often the writers are very well-meaning, trying earnestly to do something good with their work. They write to me, “I want to be inclusive and have a Romani woman character, but the trouble is that I’m a white guy, as white as white can be.”
The trouble is that I am not all Roma. I get plenty of emails from Roma who subtly and not-so-subtly imply that I am not a “real” Roma because of my education, my mixed-blood, my choice to reclaim the slur “Gypsy,” or even my fondness for swimming. There are so many Romani clans and cultures, with so many differences and grudges between them, that there are few commonalities among us but that we are all a globally persecuted, misunderstood people. We are an ethnic group, but we are consistently denied that designation, and the periods of slavery and genocide that we have endured in the Americas and in Europe often go unacknowledged. We are consistently romanticized, demonized, and dehumanized as bands of criminals, free-spirits who made unusual life style choices, or even magical creatures. We share the burden of these stereotypes that actively undermine our fight for human rights. Though we have a shared origin in 10th century India, we have no nation. This makes it difficult for us to gain representation in the UN and in humanitarian organizations that work to protect marginalized people against systemic racism, ghettoization, forced sterilization, hate crimes, unlawful deportation, poverty, and the other injustices that Roma all over the world endured for centuries and still endure today. We share this pain, but it is not easy to express it. Our governments turn against us, the gadjé ignore us, or actively silence us with Molotov cocktails. Though our language shares a Sanskrit root, there are so many dialects and differences among us that we cannot always understand each other. This makes us very lonely in a world that seems so determined to misunderstand us as a whole. Our customs vary wildly from one clan to the next with the exception that we define ourselves against gadjé, the non-Roma. We are a private, secretive people because we are afraid, with good reason, to make ourselves known and therefore vulnerable. This is why, if we are able to hide our ethnicity (and many of us do not have that luxury), we do. We are a diasporic people scattered by the violence of our oppressors—this is our universal, this is our common ground. No one will elect me to represent us, to unite us, to speak for all of us—no one will crown me Queen of the Gypsies, even if such a title existed. (And it doesn’t. It really doesn’t.) I am a controversial figure, even in spite of my unimportance. This liminal space that I inhabit is hard enough for me to write, and I live it every day. What makes a stranger think he could write it for me?
The trouble is that I am not a muse; I am an artist in my own right, and if you want to learn about me, then read the many essays, stories, and poems I’ve published. Keep an eye out for my book. And if you want to learn about the Romani people, then read the many works written by the many Romani men and women who have overcome so much to write them. There are good reasons that we, Romani writers, publish our stories instead of simply telling them into the void—we publish to share our voices, to educate others, and to speak for ourselves and our people. We publish to legitimate ourselves as professionals, academics, and artists in a world that does not see us as legitimate human beings deserving of even the most basic human rights. We publish to protect our intellectual property when we have not been protected. We publish to own our stories when so much has been ripped from us. If you want to be inclusive, then read and support the writers you want to include. Don’t ask to take our lives for your own gain. I won’t play your Gypsy girl going up in flames.
The trouble is, if I give these interviews and say, “Yes, dear Internet stranger, here is my history. Here are the assembled experiences of a real Gypsy girl. Make of them as you will,” then I am tacitly approving whatever that writer creates from me, no matter how problematic it is, no matter how inexpertly navigated the terrain might be, no matter how many offensive stereotypes it enforces. And I would be endorsing all of this while giving away the only thing I have to my name—the songs of my blood. This, I cannot do for anyone, regardless of color, sexuality, status, or gender, no matter how well-intentioned the request. Esmeralda respectfully declines her interview.
If you are a Romani person reading this, and if you have received such requests, I am not necessarily saying that you shouldn’t oblige the well-meaning inquiries into your life. Perhaps sharing your story in this anonymous way is exactly what you want to do. Perhaps that is the safest option for you, and the kindest to your family and community. Or perhaps your drive to tell stories is simply different from mine. But consider this, my phen, my sister: it is your story and you are allowed to own it. Publishing your story on your blog is enough to stake your claim. Protect what is yours in whatever way you need to. Our people have guarded our stories for good reason. Look at dear Papusza, the grandmother of Romani writing, and how her words turned on her and her people because the gadjé who published her framed her poems so carelessly, manipulated her metaphors, and used her songs to further oppress her community. I am proud of our literary Grandmother but my heart aches for her exile. She sacrificed herself to show us how a Gypsy woman can be an artist and how much can be taken from us still. My blood-grandmother lived through WWII in Nazi Germany as a Romani girl, one of the persecuted ethnic groups, and though millions of Roma and Sinti died in the Holocaust, O Porrajmos (The Great Devouring, as we call it), we are still denied acknowledgement, and on the few occasions that our loss is acknowledged, it is rarely as “genocide.” Our basic status as people is undermined—our persecution continues—Roma are still dying because of representation and ignorance. Our stories are vital, and you have the power to decide when, how, and to whom you tell them. Make sure you do what you need to do, whatever that is. I trust that you know what you need, just as I know that I need to write my own stories, and if I’m going to give an interview, it’s going to be about the work I’ve done. I will not be sacrificed and exsanguinated like Esmeralda at the stake. My art is my identity, my liminality, and the most genuine reflection of my existence. The Gypsy archetype looms over every story we record, but through our records, we give blood to the archetype and write ourselves human.
Jessica Reidy attended Florida State University for her MFA in Fiction and holds a B.A. from Hollins University. Her work is Pushcart-nominated and has appeared in Narrative Magazine as Short Story of the Week, The Los Angeles Review, Arsenic Lobster, and other journals. She’s a staff-writer and the Outreach Editor for Quail Bell Magazine, Managing Editor for VIDA: Women in the Literary Arts, Art Editor for The Southeast Review, and Visiting Professor for the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop retreats. She is a freelance writer and editor, a yoga instructor, and also works her Romani (Gypsy) family trades, fortune telling, energy healing, and dancing. Jessica is currently writing her first novel set in post-WWII Paris about Coco Charbonneau, the half-Romani burlesque dancer and fortune teller of Zenith Circus, who becomes a Nazi hunter. Visit her online at www.jessicareidy.com.