** the poem "She Calls
Once That Is a Lie" was published in Nepantla Journal's inaugural
issue.
SOLECISM
an interview with Rosebud
Ben-Oni
by Ae Hee Lee
...............................................................................................................................
With every Jewish, Spanish, and English word, SOLECISM reveals a map of crossed borders and cultural voices that do not seek to be pinned down but to travel freely and infinitely across lands. The identity of the speaker is just like its language— ridden with paradoxes and compounds that one could perceive as unusual but that in their beauty and craftsmanship make perfect sense in the heart. Just like this, Rosebud Ben-oni withholds nothing and claims the reader's sight, hearing, and everything.
***
Note: Solecism has been such a
delight to read. I have always been interested in how writers with
multicultural backgrounds manage to put together the “multi” in “one,” how several identities and landscapes can exist in a single textual context. Through her
book, Ben-Oni proved to me that this is not so different from our very selves,
as we have and are so much more than a one-dimensional identity trapped in one body.
…………………………………………………………………………………………….
1. Thank
you for doing this interview for us. To start it off, I must say that the
cover is beautiful. The colors are just amazing! It is noted inside the book
that the cover painting was done by Rogelio “El Indio” Cisneros and the
cover design by Regina Schroeder,
but could you tell us more about how you came to decide on the final picture
and how you feel it represents Solecism?
Rogelio Cisneros is my uncle, my mother's
brother-in-law. He’s mixed (Mexican and Native American), and had worked on the
border in Tijuana and Chula Vista, California, for many decades. He’s a tall,
imposing figure, and looks very serious when you first meet him, and yet he and
his wife, my Aunt Olivia, were the life of the party in our family. Like
most of my mother’s family, they had a strong presence in my life. When I
attended college, my aunt wrote me long, long letters about their life
together, about growing up in the Rio Grande Valley in Texas and driving all
the way to California with barely any money, only to have their car break down
on the way there. In California, they became involved in the Chicano movement
early on, vocal in their politics, and then they could dance like no one’s
business.
Uncle Rogelio finally retired
about seven years ago, and he’d plan to focus on his art, but then my aunt fell
very ill; he now cares for her full time. In the summer of 2012, a few months
after I’d had my book accepted for publication, I went with my parents to see
them in Chula Vista. He showed me some of his paintings, and the ones of the
wolves were incredible. The wolf on the cover of my book was actually his own
pet wolf. Yes, he kept a she-wolf in the suburbs of San Diego. Whenever she’d
howl at the moon, he’d tell the neighbors that her breed had a very peculiar
relationship with the phases of the moon. I loved this story. I then wrote to
my publisher, Steve Schroeder, about using one particular painting as the
cover. Luckily, the publisher said yes. And so that’s how it happened.
I chose this painting for the
cover because, to quote “Burning She-Wolf” by Vasko Popa, one of my favorite
poets: “With her teeth the shewolf reaches/ The blonde braid of a star/ And
climbs back to the base of the sky.” As a child I was often this kind of
animal, always returned to this animal, no matter what new discovery. As a
poet, I shift in and out of this animal, unfollow the scent of the pack, the
pack the childhood selves out of which these poems in SOLECISM first
spring forth.
2. Throughout
your book, you employ untraditional grammatical structures and juxtaposition of
ideas. There is a beautiful play of words present as you compound words like
“razor-wild” or “leather-rebellious” and compose paradoxes in phrases like
“born a muerto.” What is the inspiration behind the title and theme of
your collection of poems? What was the process like of writing in such a solecistic way?
As I preface in the book,
solecism is defined as: nonstandard or ungrammatical usage; breach of good
manners or etiquette; any error, impropriety or inconsistency. I am guilty of
all these. If the place of return (rather than home) is the wolf,
then my spirit animal is doubt. When I was putting the collection together, I
realized that the journey here was not to seek redemption, but to explore a
multicultural experience of warring (and often contradictory) doubts and lay it
all out to see what that journey looked like. Migration as a way of life, so to
say, rather than a means to an end. That was where I was at that point in my
life as a poet and as a human.
3. There
are instances when a sort of exoticization of a person or experience takes
place in your book. For instance in “The Reply of Sal Si Puedes,” you write,
“Quit photographing my children for/ exposés of The Second Coming.” In
“For the Mixed Child with Pale Skin,” the child must pose with a macaw on his
shoulder to “draw out the exotic.” In “Proof of Absence” people ask what it is
like to survive a bombing and are surprised by how the speaker compares it to
something as banal as “bad music.” Could you share with us how you
further explore the idea of the exotic in your book and whether you had in mind
the notions of gazing and othering?
I’ve had some interesting
experiences with the dominant discourse; that I had a mentor tell me that she
found my poems with “Jewish” subject matter to be more “mature” than whatever
my “picturesque” Mexican side could ever bring out. I had a grown man tell me
he’d been to Mexico once, and that the poverty there was more “romantic,” and
that the people “weren’t unhappy there.” A man with a Ph.D. and
tenure. Telling me. To my face.
This sort of thing continues.
Just recently I had a white, straight, male poet write to me that with the
“changing” landscape of poetics, he found himself listening more than speaking,
and that he wasn’t used to that, and that he felt disempowered by it. He jumped
off from there, and wrote that, given his recent experience, he was struggling
to find some way to identify with some of the poems I’d written in SOLECISM.
That while he liked me as person (I should mention we’ve never even met), he
believed that it was heavily implied throughout the book that I was blaming
him, or rather, directing my “anger” at all white, straight, male poets.
I was taken back by this (half of
the poems aren’t even set in the U.S.), but also curious as to why he had to identify with
these poems at all. I think that’s part of the problem, that one has to
identify with the poet. Why not just listen? I’ve been listening all my life to
the dominant discourse. It’s called K-12. It’s called Survey of American
Literature. It’s called Pedagogy. It’s called Well-Meaning Mentors who Ask You
Where Are Your Tortilla/Abuela Poems? Weaving in and out of those is the power
of the gaze, the exoticizing, the othering.
In the end it couldn’t be a
conversation because he was offended. He stated again that said he had been
listening, but where did that leave his voice? I found the whole thing very
strange: he was trying to “other” himself by thinking he had to be a victim, to
show that he was under attack. I have friends whom are white, straight and
male, and they are finding plenty of places to publish their work, so I
couldn’t really see his point at all.
I think too many people are hung
up on the idea that there needs to be one, solid idea of U.S. poetry, one
spirit animal, one voice that we can all identify with. And those kind of
people wanted to see it represented in a way that reflects their own beliefs
and agendas. Well, good luck with that, honey. Maybe it’s because I’m mixed,
but trying to fit every single person in this country within those
kind of confines is a recipe for disaster. Because those like me will always
escape the box, and live outside of it. And you will have to “listen” even
then.
4. I love these
two verses: “I am the mistress of fragmentation” and “You are not the first to
break/ into restricted areas// wanting nothing at all.” I am very interested in
hearing what fragmentation means for you in relation to remembering the place
where the fragments come from and crossing boundaries.
Sometimes it’s just about the
breaking and breaking in, rather than to collect something. What about coming
to the crossing and seeing what’s there first before going forward or heading
back. I’ve lived on physical borders, in the communities that have sprung up there.
Fragmentation for me is my origin as a poet. It’s where I still rest my head at
the end of poem, a line, a thought. I long for something whole, though, which
is why the breaking in. I’m drawing a line in the sand close to the surf coming
in. I’m cutting though an old shoe climbing a fence of razors. I let the foot
bleed, the mark wash away. I write. Sometimes I fragment things that
think themselves whole, that think they can only exist one way. I cross them
over into a new world, I make them awkward and silent and misunderstood.
5. Animals
seem to be recurrent in your poems, especially winged ones like locusts and
birds (sparrows and pauraque). How did they come to you? And what kind of place
would you say they have in your life and poetry? Is there any connection
between them and the concept of journeying and flying over borders?
Once after a snowstorm, I saw
this sparrow sitting on a patch of snow outside my bedroom window. I thought it
was dead because it was so cold. But then someone passed by and it flew up into
the air, and then down back on the same place. It began to preen. It sat there
for a long time. This is totally the poet speaking, but I swear that sparrow
was mocking us with our coats and scarves and boots, rushing to our warm homes,
that it could sit on a pile of snow just to show how tough it was. I think of
the film Days of Being Wild. There’s this line from the movie in which
Leslie Cheung says: "I've heard that there's a kind of bird without
legs that can only fly and fly, and sleep in the wind when it is tired. The
bird only lands once in its life... that's when it dies."
In SOLECISM, the speaker
begins as this bird. Because I've have been that kind of bird. Now, I’m still
this bird. But I'm not completely of it. But how I once was, in entire. Given
over to reckless things, leaving too many people and thing, leaving, leaving,
always leaving. And as I wrote, slowly the layers of this bird peeled off
because I was forced to land as I wrote. And I didn't die, entire. As a poet,
I'm still peeling, letting go the sum of all those one-minute peccadillos and
larger transgressions. And in this book I gather the peels. And in the book
some give way to sparrows sitting in the snow, while some burn, remain burning,
a kind of forever in flight like Cheung’s bird who can’t land. Both make up the
journey. Both have flown over borders in way I can as a poet, in a way I can’t
as a human.
6. Your
biography says you were born to a Mexican mother and Jewish father. In Solecism a
rich interaction between cultures and religions can be found; Spanish, Hebrew,
and English words meet in a single poetic context, and the speaker interacts
with God, Ishtar, and the Virgin Guadalupe in his/her life. Please tell us
where (or how) you find your identity (do you feel a necessity to find it?). Would
you say these poems are autobiographical and that you find yourself in your
writing?
The poems are rooted in many
histories, both personal and generational. I am writing about my multiple
selves who have communed with Ishtar, the Virigin Guadalupe and the Jewish God,
and those selves have been reimagined. What I find in a lot of these poems is
that the poet searching for home and for a homeland, which are two very
different things. These day I don’t worry too much about finding my identity
anymore—it’s there, in fragmentation. Mixed heritage can be an origin itself (I
wrote about that here).
Putting together SOLECISM as a collection was a way of
discovering this idea, that one can exist in plural and also hold dear
conflicting national/religious/social histories. That one can house them all in
the manner that they work perhaps nowhere else, and break with them when she or
he chooses.
My Mexican identity is one rooted
in family; it is because of my mother’s family that identity is so strong. And
while I still identify as Jewish, it has less to do with the communal aspect of
Jewish life, though I might return to it someday and join a synagogue again. I
miss the sound of the shofar during the High Holy days, attending Shabbat
services, building a sukkah. But these things live in the poems, so they can’t
be taken from me. Sometimes I’m still Cheung’s bird who falls asleep in the
wind, but after the publication of this book, I now awaken on much more certain
ground. No matter what, I land. And I awaken. That is the finding, the
continuing.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Born to a Mexican mother and a
Jewish father, Rosebud Ben-Oni is the author of SOLECISM (Virtual Artists'
Collective), a CantoMundo Fellow and the recipient of a 2014 Poetry
Fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts (NYFA). Her work
appears in POETRY, The American Poetry Review, Arts &
Letters, Puerto del Sol and elsewhere. In 2010, her
story “A Way out of the Colonia” won the Editor's Prize in Camera
Obscura.
She graduated from New York
University, where she won the Seth Barkas Prize for Best Short Story and The
Thomas Wolfe/Phi Beta Kappa Prize for Best Poetry Collection. During her study
at NYU, she was also a Leopold Schepp Scholar. She was a Rackham Merit Fellow
at the University of Michigan where she earned a Master of the Fine Arts in
Poetry, and was awarded grants from the American Jewish League for Israel and
the Center for Judaic Studies at the University of Michigan. She was a Horace
Goldsmith Scholar at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem where she completed
post-graduate research
A graduate of the 2010 Women's
Work Lab, she is a playwright at New Perspectives Theater, and also at work on
a new play. Her plays have been produced in New York City, Washington DC
and Toronto. Rosebud is an Editorial Advisor for VIDA: Women in Literary
Arts, a Newsletter Columnist for Kore Press, a Contributor to The
Conversant and at work on her first novel, The Imitation of
Crying. She has served as Guest Editor for several publications including [Five]
Quarterly and Winter
Tangerine's IMAGINARY
HOMELANDS feature. She is also completing her second book of
poetry.
***
Ae Hee Lee is a South Korean
by birth and Peruvian by heart and memory. She is currently an MFA candidate in
the creative writing program of The University of Notre Dame and works as a
graduate assistant for the university’s Institute of Latino Studies. You
can find (or will find) her poetry in Dialogue, Cha, Cobalt, Spark: A
Creative Anthology, Ruminate, The Rain, Party, & Disaster
Society, Day One, and Silver Birch Press.
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