Posted 21st December by @Eunuch_Onegin in series The Call-Out
content warnings: pedagogy
tags: doors; axes; herbal teas
And now rewind: the leaves are rising
softly through the air, to reattach
to the trees, and resume photosynthesizing;
the russet turning, patch by patch
back to green, as if by magic.
It’s comic, as in, the opposite of tragic,
but of course it’s nothing but a poet’s trick:
all I have is words, I can’t unpick
the seconds, or reverse the direction
of flow of heat, to less from more,
as prescribed so clearly by the second law
of thermodynamics. Through the selection
and ordering of narrative,
I can give the effect, but that’s all I can give.
So backwards! It’s September, and Keiko’s returning
to uni for her second academic year
in pursuit of that special kind of learning
that leaves you incapable of having a career
as anything other than that magical creature:
an artist. Her college has the feature
of combining courses in making art
with others that claim to be able to impart
not skill, but wisdom, and to offer instruction
in analysis and critical thought.
This term she’s signed up for a course that is taught
(in accordance with proper dramatic construction)
by Aashvi! If you’re thinking this world is small
you’ve no understanding of fate at all.
As we’ve gathered, Keiko’s predispositions,
æsthetically, are conservative,
but “Decolonial Apparitions”
(as the course is titled) seems to give
her something to chew on. I’m not pretending
I get it, but it presently results in her sending
an email to Aashvi, asking to speak
during office hours, maybe next week,
about the essay on which she’s working.
Aashvi has to say yes: it’s how she gets paid,
and so, daunted but undismayed
Keiko arrives and begins lurking
more than twenty minutes before
the appointed time, by the office door.
When the bing of the elevator
puts an end to Keiko’s wait
it’s almost a full hour later.
—“Oh yes, it’s you. Sorry I’m late.”
Has Aashvi been crying? Her eyes are bleary.
“Come in, sit down. Now what was your query?”
Keiko sits. Her chair goes creeeeeak.
—“I read, um, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’
And I mean, why can’t she? It’s sort of confusing . . .”
She stops, from embarrassment or fear
then plunges on, “I’m trans, I’m queer,
I’m sort of subaltern, I guess, if you’re using
that term, and I make art, or try . . .
Like, can’t I speak? Or if not, why?”
Aashvi sighs. —“She’s not preventing
the subaltern from speaking. She cannot be heard
because the statement she is representing
appears, in dominant discourse, absurd.
One is not subaltern, by definition,
if one can pay for college tuition!
So of course you can speak. But perhaps you can say
only certain things, in a certain way,
because you are both somewhat located,
precisely by ‘trans’ and terms like these,
in hegemonic hierarchies,
and also somewhat alienated.
In so far as the marginal is expressed in art
the culture is prone to ignore that part.”
—“Okay! That helps! Like I have been feeling
I mean, like you’re saying, that people ignore
like half what I say, and perhaps that’s revealing,
maybe it’s about, I don’t know, I’m not sure,
but maybe it’s about . . . like racism maybe?
Some people treat me like I’m a baby,
who needs someone else to speak for me!
And I read that that’s supposed to be
like an Asian stereotype? Infantilization?”
—“I think it can be a mistake to read
theory from a place of personal need.
Which isn’t to say that your frustration,
isn’t real, or that these things aren’t true,
but this text is not a text about you.
—“It is not self-help. Her work’s pursuing
a critique of a certain theoretical trend.”
—“Okay, but in theory, if someone is doing
something like this, and they’re, like, a friend,
but also they’re privileged, I guess, or whatever,
is that a relationship you just have to sever?”
—“I cannot provide you pastoral advice.
Perhaps your friend is not very nice,
but privilege is not a psychological condition.
Are white people racist? I mean, of course!
But this is beating a very dead horse:
it only describes their structural position.
It’s as if one went out of one’s way to insist
the bourgeoisie are capitalist!”
—“It’s structural. Okay, I get that,
but what do I do if reading this text
made me . . . angry, or like upset that . . .”
—“Anger is natural. I am often vexed.
But if we are righteous we stop critiquing
the terms through which we are even speaking.
Spivak describes ‘the impossible no’
of deconstruction. One cannot go
outside of discourse, one is always complicit.
One need not put up with people’s crap,
of course, but innocence is also a trap.
One must use one’s guilt, and not dismiss it.
For an artist, it’s a duty one must not shirk.
Now is that all? I have to work.”
Keiko stands and leaves slowly,
floats out the building, takes the train,
with a distant expression, as if she’s wholly
absorbed by events inside her brain.
Occasional emotions—distress? irritation?—
cross her features. Internal conversation
manifests in her sometimes moving her lips
or scowling. She bumps into people, trips
on steps, almost misses her connection,
but makes it home. The next few days
she wanders around in a kind of haze.
One morning, she’s been staring at her own reflection
in the mirror for fifteen minutes straight
when Gaia calls. —“It’s a yes from Kate!”
—“Wait. Who’s Kate? What’s she agreeing?”
—“Journalist Kate! She’s said she’ll be
part of the group that’s overseeing
the meetings for accountability.”
—“Oh yeah. Is that good?” —“It is! She’s for real.
Everyone respects her. I think she’s ideal.
She gets consent, which of course a lot
of older trans women just do not.”
—“Gaia, this process, it’s set up so that . . .
I kept away from the whole thing online,
like you said I should, and that was fine,
I guess, but I’m asking, do people know that
it’s me? Like some of them must know?”
—“Well some, for sure. But the number is low.”
—“Well is that okay? Like, this is about me.
It’s a problem of mine that’s meant to be solved.
Maybe this shouldn’t happen without me?
I think I need to be more involved.”
—“What do you mean? I’ve kept you updated,
and I definitely don’t think you’re obligated
to stand up in public and share your pain.”
—“You’re right, I know . . . It’s hard to explain!
I just. I just think I need to make choices.
This feels like it’s got a life of its own,
or you’re off doing it, and I’m alone
away to the side, not one of the voices
in which the community’s interested:
just some sort of helpless little kid.”
Gaia’s voice takes on a tremulous inflection.
—“Keiko, are you . . . are we okay?
You know I have a lot of affection . . .
I’m such a fuck-up! I get carried away,
I’m always trying to do things faster,
and then it’s always a disaster,
I’m sorry. But listen, I can make this right,
come to the meeting next Wednesday night,
like, not with Day, just preparation,
you should come, and discuss what you want to be
the outcome, and then you’ll have agency,
we’ll just be helping with implementation.”
And Keiko must still be totally gay
for Gaia, because she replies: —“Okay.”
And so it comes to pass, one gloomy
Wednesday in October, they gather to meet
at my apartment. It isn’t roomy,
so I go to the bar just down the street.
Truthfully, Kate and I have been fighting,
again. I don’t really like her inviting
this into our home, but we meet halfway:
the meeting will happen, but I won’t stay.
As I slip through the building doorway
I see Gaia and Keiko down the block.
Keiko’s saying —“Well yeah, it’s a shock,
I know we’ve been doing this process your way,
but you should have told me, right from the start,
that you had Baker taking part.”
They go inside, still debating.
Of course, Gaia has made them late,
so the other three are already waiting,
sat on my sofa. There’s Baker, there’s Kate
and there’s Janet (remember? who does the cooking
at the picnics). The last of these three is looking
typically grumpy, and wearing a hat
indoors. When Gaia comes into the flat
Janet reacts like she bit something sour.
—“Oh hi, so glad you joined us at last.”
—“Sorry, queer time. We came as fast . . .”
—“Well. We’ve been here for half an hour.
I came because it’s the right thing to do,
but I didn’t realize I’d be waiting on you.”
—“Dudes,” says Baker, “come on, like, chill it.”
—“Now,” says Kate, “this isn’t a race.
The session this evening continues until it
gets everybody involved to a place
they’re good with. Keiko, I’m glad you got here,
and clearly, Day, your abuser, is not here.
We’re here to support you. For us to succeed
it would help if you’d talk about what you might need.”
—“Um,” says Keiko, “I guess I’ve been dealing
alright, and it’s nice to be offered support.
I suppose I haven’t given it much thought . . .”
Gaia jumps in. —“It should be about healing,
like that’s the purpose. I think that we
are here to heal the community.”
Kate gives her a look, but she doesn’t see it,
her eyes are down. “So we ought to begin
by discussing community. How do we be it,
or what’s the relation we want to be in?
Clearly, some versions are destructive:
oppressive, fascist. If they’re seductive
it’s because they offer a place to belong
and insist that unity will make us strong.
Now the fasces is a symbol that was appropriated
from the Romans: it’s sticks that are tied round an axe,
like stronger together. But the artefacts
archaeologists find, the oldest dated
have an axe of a very particular kind:
actually, it’s a labrys they find.”
—“Where is this going?” Kate enquires.
—“Somewhere, I promise! Bear with me.
Before the Roman or Greek empires
invented colonial masculinity,
this labrys belonged to a mother deity
who bound us in love, not homogeneity.
Virtue’s from vir, meaning a man
but centering the feminine means that we can
work for goodness without relying
on structures in which we punish and shun.
Justice means helping everyone!
We shouldn’t aim at identifying
mere redress. As queers, our goal
is to learn to remake the culture as a whole!”
At last she looks up, like in expectation,
but no-one has anything much to say.
There’s a risky gap in the conversation.
Then Keiko fills it. —“But what about Day?”
(as she says it, her body visibly tenses)
“Don’t her actions have consequences?
What happens to her, and to me as well?
The last two months have been like hell.
I can’t go to sleep, I keep reliving
what happened, trying to figure out
my feelings, but all I feel is doubt.
Should I just forget it, or try forgiving?
What did she do? Was it really that bad?
What’s wrong with me? Why am I sad?
“Like fuck you, Gaia, and your grand ambition,
actually. You’re always stuck in your head,
you’re always giving some disquisition,
what about listening to me instead?
You say you’re my friend! But you’re such a liar,
you never think about what I desire,
it’s like you’re unable to hear my voice . . .
You made me do this. I had no choice.
This is all just more of your selfish behavior.
All you care about’s some big idea.
Do you even know I’m sitting right here?
You make these promises, like some kind of savior,
but I’m in pain, and all you do
is make the whole thing all about you!”
Gaia flinches, and starts emitting
a high-pitched animal keening yelp,
then clenches her fists, and commences hitting
herself in the face. —“I was trying to help!”
she shrieks, “That was all, I was only trying . . .”
then she runs to the door, and goes flying
out of the apartment, and down the stairs.
Keiko crumples into one of the chairs,
weeping. Kate goes over, and, kneeling
down by her side, touches her arm.
—“Okay,” she says, “we’re keeping calm.
You’re safe. It’s over. As you said, you’re dealing
with a lot right now. And if we can do . . .”
—“But why couldn’t she just like me too?”
—“I’m sorry, what?” But Keiko’s crying
so intensely now, with such little restraint
that she’s barely capable of replying.
At last, she manages to produce a faint
—“It doesn’t matter. I’m such a loser.”
—“You’re not. I promise. Perhaps you could use a
warming cup of herbal tea.”
—“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Kate goes over to start the kettle.
—“Well something just happened, it’s clear you’re in pain.
I’ll make you tea, and you can explain
what’s going on, and we can settle
on a plan.” She smiles. Outside in the street
the wind starts howling, the rain becomes sleet.