Past the Unreliable :: An Interview with Selah Saterstrom

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Slab (small title continued: “On That Hallelujah Day When Tiger & Preacher Meet”) is one of those novels that hits you fast and hard, that you finish in one sitting, gulping down like an ice-cold glass of water, yet fail to be able to fully recall or explain the experience even moments after it ends. What’s for sure is this: the story of Slab centers around Tiger, a woman named for the color of her hair, a dancer, a dreamer, a girl fully rooted in the post-Katrina South, who may or may not be narrating the entirety of her story to Miss Barbara Walters. It’s little use trying to quickly describe Slab or its character Tiger, who is, after all, only as complex and fascinating as the author of the beast, Selah Saterstrom. In our brief interview, Saterstrom explores religion and its possible “anti-heroes,” Southern roots (and holds), even the heroisms of Nancy Drew. If you enjoy even a piece of this interview, go, fast, and pick up Saterstrom’s Slab (and all her other works).

Kati Heng: The setting of Mississippi seems to hold such a prominence in the story of Slab. Could this story have taken place anywhere else? What would it have looked like elsewhere?

Selah Saterstorm: The de-categorizing hand of the disaster doesn’t mind manners or borders. In this sense, the story could have taken place anywhere. Capitalism and politics, however, are sickly-bloated with border-fetish. In this sense, the disaster that was FEMA very much locates the story in Mississippi and Louisiana.

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Rah! Rah! Roundup

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If you haven’t read “What Not To Do When Black Lives Matters Stages a Protest at your Goal Marathon,” then do so immediately.

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28 LESSONS LEARNED FROM A YEAR OF ‘BEING UNREASONABLE’; FOR BROWN AND BLACK POETS & OUR CHOSEN FAMILIES

a status report on my piece from earlier this year: “To Being Unreasonable in 2015”

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LESSON #1:  Embrace your hostility. Be angry. Be a stain. Be what others call a “negative” person.  Create a “zone of hostility so large it creates a forcefield of care for yourself and your kin.”* Pick every last fight. Learn the words “go fuck yourself.” Wake up each morning and say: “Our mothers didn’t bring us here to shut up.” Those who do not want to hear your anger do not want to hear you at all. Those who wonder why you are so negative all the time don’t realize how vocalizing this anger publicly and loudly might, in fact, be part of your survival. 

LESSON #2: As a result of lesson 1, your inbox will become an unsafe space; don’t check it in public or late at night or too early in the morning. Or at the bar. Or on the train. Or before work. Take special care with emails from well-meaning white friends who have been confused by you: Are you referring to me in that tweet from 2 weeks ago???  2PM is the best time to check e-mail—far enough into the day that you can still make it through.

LESSON #3: Learn that your first English words, at the age of four, were HI! & PLEASE! & THANK YOU!—and that you were taught these words before you really knew what they meant. Learn that you performed them like a parrot to try to pass as American at an airport in Texas. Learn that from the moment you’ve entered this country, you’ve been excelling at passing, so this heartbreak you are feeling now, this unlearning that feels like death, this feeling that you’ve been a phony your whole life, is actually somewhat real, because, who are you? who have you been? Continue reading

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WE WERE THERE: The Supermoon Eclipse (Part 2)

This is the second (and final) part of a document of what my friends, family, and Weird Sisters experienced during the supermoon eclipse this past Sunday. Read the previous accounts here.

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Credit: parentherald.com

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WE WERE THERE: The Supermoon Eclipse (Part 1)

credit: Pinterest/layoutsparks.com

I got married on September 27, 2008, at 5:30 p.m.; seven years and four hours later my husband and I were standing in a deserted picnic area by the highway outside of Great Barrington, MA, watching a red mist take over the moon.  If any mystic horror was going to happen to us in our lives, it would have happened then, right? So we stood there, enduring the eldritch hooting of remote owls or wolves and less-remote humans,  plus the roar and blaze of cars on the highway, plus a strange throbbing that we thought was coming from an invisible body of water a few feet away, and we didn’t quite know where the drop was, and we also couldn’t quite see our car where we’d parked it in the darkness; forgetting, a little bit, that we were parents and that our two-year-old daughter was sleeping at my brother’s house in Springfield fifty miles away, but not forgetting that we were partners, and that we had been together forever, and now we were two bodies on this strange margin of nature and culture that was entirely not wild but also not entirely safe; and we waited, and ducked our heads when car headlights passed so they wouldn’t blind us to the stars that we never got to see in Brooklyn, and we watched.

I knew people were excited about this eclipse, but when we got back to our hotel feeling like we’d actually seen something, or risked something as a couple, on this weird magic day inside our marriage (I know, we’re citified wusses, we were in no danger, but you guys! Didn’t you know that you’re always in danger? Doesn’t a blood moon sort of tell you that, too?), and I had cell service again, it seemed like all my friends were also really seeing and risking and feeling something in the light of the blood moon, too. So I thought we should probably register that this had happened, document our collective experience of eclipse or of moon worship, collate the evidence that We Were All There. Moon stuff is feminist stuff by definition, right? I asked the Weird Sister staff, plus some of my friends and family, to tell us how it went for them. I ended up with two posts’ worth of moony stories; here’s the first installment! Continue reading

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Rah! Rah! Roundup

Check out Purvi Shah’s work for VIDA on the unbearable white maleness of poetry and the economy of Best American Poetry: “…[I]t is shocking to put these two facts together: 1) in his language, Hudson used an Asian American woman’s name to place his poems; 2) there has been only 1 identifiable woman of color editor and 0 Asian American editors of the Best American Poetry series. It is abysmal when poetry, which could be the most democratic of art forms, is reinforced as the locus of the privileged White male.”

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IN DEFENSE OF SORROW: The Sad Girl Internet Aesthetic

“Being a woman is the saddest thing,” I said in a recent therapy session. I felt overwhelmed by daily experiences that are felt by many women, like: having a body that is treated as public property, legal and professional injustices, the price of tampons, article after article preaching how not to get raped, how to make him fall in love with you (in only seven easy steps! Step one: change everything about yourself), a constant fear of attack, seeing little to no representation of oneself in movies and television, online hate. The list goes on.

These things make me angry. They make me want to shout and protest, but I also feel saddened by them. Usually, I keep those feelings hidden. Sadness is often viewed, socially, as a passing emotion that can and should be overcome; an unproductive state that should be actively avoided.

the way things are by mollysoda newhive.com/mollysoda/depressedprincess

the way things are by mollysoda newhive.com/mollysoda/depressedprincess

Today, young female artists, part of an emerging “sad girls” trend, are using the Internet as the outlet for performing their heartache, sorrow and despair, creating complex work on the web that deals with the double-binds women today face. Continue reading

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EDITING A NATIONAL JOURNAL WHILE MESSY & DEPRESSED

This summer, I found myself barely capable of editing Nepantla: A Journal Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color in collaboration with the Lambda Literary Foundation.

I spent my last couple weeks in NYC displaced from my house before moving to Cali (where I couch surfed with friends for a while). Housing was unstable for a few months.

This affects how I sleep, breathe, eat, think, act.

After two months of couches, I finally found a room to sublet. My first night subletting, about fifteen shots were fired outside my window. I hit the floor and crawled into the living room…. In the morning, I heard that police killed my neighbor, Antonio Clements, in Oakland.

As I’m writing this, it has been ten days since that incident. Continue reading

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Rah! Rah! Roundup

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Tell me that this isn’t the most victim-blaming letter you’ve ever read. Here’s a follow-up interview with the inspiring young man after his arrest, illustrating that this 14-year old boy hasn’t lost the feeling of support against bigotry.

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Soy Emo, Hemorragia: A bilingual guide to bleeding properly (Part I)

Image By Rupi Kaur

Image By Rupi Kaur

To my first menarche party I brought strawberries and red paper plates found in the forgotten Valentine’s corner at Walgreens. Everyone was instructed to bring some blood-themed food to commemorate eggs falling un-inseminated out of our vaginas, so on the table where red brownies, cherry pie, lollipops, beet salad, red wine, red chips, salsa, tapatío, red rice, red chicken, etc. You get the point.

The lead facilitator wore a red wig and a red shirt with MENSTRUATION IS BEAUTIFUL, Coca-Cola style across the boobs. It was supposed to be evocative. We sat in a circle passing around diva cups, small tampons, regular tampons, big tampons, home-made pads, Kotex pads, douches, and any other possible menstruation product now available at Walgreens. The girl who brought the home-made pads explained how wonderful they were, how the textile softly touched her pussy, how old-school, how anti-capitalist, how pro-femme, how her mama even sewed her one! How she washed them in hot water at night and boom you got yourself another pad without supporting the white supremacist capitalist heteropatriarchy. Everyone nodded. It seemed all the “natural” home-made products were winning in this game. Tampons were shamed, diva cups exalted.  There is no way a piece of your mama’s cloth is gonna resist the avalanche that comes out of this pussy, I thought. Give me my extra-large tampons back and blessed art thou Kotex and the Colombian equivalent, Nosotras. Muchas gracias reinita pero no.
PADSEWED

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