Love and Sorrow: Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Yesterday was Nigerian Independence Day and, to recognise it in my capacity as an English Teacher, I discussed it with my pupils alongside the literary work Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

I saw Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speak about this wonderful, heartbreaking (and, at times, heartwarming) collection of essays at the Southbank Centre last Friday – she was amazing. It is rare to see a woman discussing her emotions onstage, particularly for two hours or so, and it is also rare to hear experiences of grief being shared so openly. I felt privileged to have been there.

I was taken aback by how quickly Adichie was able to write this collection. She wrote it just 3 months after her father’s death. The surprise came because, after my best friend died, it took me almost 3 years to compose poetry about him in a way that I feel is meaningful. Adichie spoke about how people cope differently with grief, and noted that it was important for her to be able to talk to (and sometimes, laugh with) other people (particularly her siblings), about her father. This was interesting for me to hear, because I have no-one to share stories about my friend with really, and it helped me realise why my struggles with grief felt so lonely. Of course, I could speak to my parents and his parents, but I don’t have any peers who knew him in the way that I did.

Adichie spoke about the significance of love when grieving. She writes in her essays:

A friend sends me a line from a novel I wrote: “Grief was the celebration of love, those who could feel real grief were lucky to have loved.” How odd to find it so exquisitely painful to read my own words.

Whilst Adichie found this sentence painful, I felt sense of peace from her words. If I hadn’t loved my friend with such immense depth, I wouldn’t feel grief with such intense sorrow. When hearing and, afterwards, reading this, I felt my feelings were truly valid. That even if I wasn’t sure how my friend felt about me (he killed himself, which made me question our relationship for a long time), I was entirely sure how I felt – and feel – about him. And that is important.

I am grateful to have heard and read Adichie’s words, and I am so glad grief is being talked about. It is something often avoided in discussion, but unfortunately, it’s something everyone will experience. I teach about suicide every year in the English curriculum (An Inspector Calls, Jekyll & Hyde, Mrs Dalloway) and yet we never hear much about the family and friends who are affected. It is an interesting literary trope, but it was very hard to teach during my first year.

The best question I was ever asked about my friend, after he died, was: what do you miss about him? This gave me an excuse to talk about everything I love(d) about him, and it meant I didn’t have to explain his death. If you’re stuck with what to say to someone grieving – after you’ve said that you’re sorry – I think asking what they miss about that person is a good place to start.

(You can find Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Notes on Grief, published in the New Yorker, here; or you can buy the very beautiful book, like I did.)

Nature, Taboo, Healing: Bear by Marian Engel

My posts have dwindled slightly during the summer months this year, which is almost the opposite to last. Last year we were in lockdown, and I was writing posts twice a week(!), but this year I prioritised trying new activities and writing new things (although I have been reading, don’t worry!), so I’m sorry I’ve been a little bit neglectful.

In August, I went to the Swanwick writers’ retreat again, and after some amazing workshops, I was inspired to write poetry like I used to. The death of a friend and the pandemic caused me to turn to nonfiction, I suppose as a way to cope, but now I feel I can go back to my writing roots: penning poetry about social justice, and experimenting with magical realism.

This genre brings me to the book I’ve loved reading the most over the summer: Bear by Marian Engel. I picked it up from Daunt Books in Marylebone.

Bear is about a woman’s relationship with a bear. It goes beyond the socially acceptable, plays with taboos, crosses the line between what is deemed ‘natural’ and the natural world. It is set in two isolated places: the protagonist’s mind, and an island.

‘Give me your skin.’

This book, to me, is about the acceptance of self, the breaking-free from constraints, the questioning of other people’s judgement and expectations, particularly those of the patriarchy.

Last week, I cleared out my books (10 years worth – the decade of my life in London). It was brutal. I donated pretty much everything I’d already read, in the hopes each novel would go to someone who really needed it.

But I’m not ready to donate Bear, not yet. For some reason, some need, I’m not quite finished with it.

Cannery Row Manifesto

This summer, you have permission to act like Mack and the boys:

• Party too hard, be ostracised from society, then throw another party and be welcomed back with open arms.

• Chase a ton of frogs around someone’s garden, get invited into the house for deep chats, then borrow a litre of good whiskey while the homeowner sleeps on the floor.
  
• Stay in a warehouse with your pals and fill it with OK-furniture and a dog.
  
• Take it in turns with your friends so only one or two of you have to work a job at any one time.
  
• Go on a road trip, break down, get arrested (at a pub), then get let out of jail. The reason for your release? A party.
  
• Cook a rooster over a campfire.
  
• Big-up everything your friends say with the phrase: ‘I think you’ve got something there…’
  
• Fight, then make friends with your opponent. Make friends with everyone.
  
• Cry at good poetry.
  
• Listen to awesome music, ideally on a record player.

You deserve it. Steinbeck says so (basically). Happy summer 2021!

A Perilous Journey: The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enríquez

On a long car journey when I was nine-years-old, I decided to read one of my more chilling stories aloud to my family. My younger siblings listened as I told them a tale about a toy who ate children. When I’d finished reading (spoiler: they all die at the end), worried looks formed on my parents’ faces, and I was told not to write stuff like that. I ripped the story up into tiny pieces, and threw it out of the window.

Although I stopped writing Gothic stories for a while after, I didn’t stop reading them. Now I find myself penning and devouring as much within the genre as possible.

A few weeks ago, I read Mariana Enríquez’s International Booker Prize Nominated short story collection The Dangers of Smoking In Bed. I’ve been thinking about her tales often. The most haunting are those that feel a little close to the bone: ones that remind me of being young and naïve; uncanny stories that are just a little too familiar. Memorably, the horror in this collection arises from the nature of human beings rather than the supernatural aspects, and it’s this insight into humanity’s capabilities that is truly frightening (and beautifully critiqued).

I no longer rip up my outré stories. (One was recently shortlisted for a Writing Magazine competition.) Exposure to writers like Mariana Enríquez, including Angela Carter, Claire Keegan and Emily Brontë, helped me realise women can, and must, write twisted, sinister stories, exploring the darkest of fears and desires. I recommend delving into Enríquez’s collection: you should definitely judge this book by it’s cover.

Faith and Survival: Life of Pi by Yann Martel

I finished Life of Pi on the first day of Ramadan. This felt significant, because the eponymous hero is a Muslim, Hindu and Christian, and through Pi’s faith, Martel conveys the importance of respecting all religions. I particularly like Islam because of Ramadan, and what it means to fast alongside your community: Ramadan portrays the beauty of spirituality, faith, and worship, and highlights a collective caring of people that sometimes other communities miss.

Life of Pi is also a story about survival; Pi is stuck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – with a tiger for company – for 227 days. I think that’s what we’ve all been doing for the last year and a bit: surviving (some of us with our own fearsome tigers). The word survival means something different when stranded in the Pacific Ocean, but it doesn’t mean we haven’t felt a bit lost at sea. We have all experienced hardships this year, be it surviving mental and physical health issues, surviving emotions such as sadness and grief, or surviving each of our disrupted days.

Pi survived on hope and faith. If you’re reading this, you found a way to survive too. You survived more than 227 days of a pandemic, and that is amazing. Some people, though, might feel they only just made it, and that is OK. I have written about mental health on this blog before, and how a mixture of therapy, chigung, and kung fu have helped me (alongside reading, of course!). These things may not be for you, but charities such as Mind and YoungMinds might be able to offer you, or your friends and family, some guidance, so you feel strong enough to continue your journey.

In October I am running the Royal Parks Half Marathon in aid of Mind. If you would like to support me, and others who might need Mind’s help, you can find out more here.

Thanks for sticking with my blog since I started it back in the first lock down. Like Pi, keep surviving, because you matter, and you are deserving of a good life.

Practicing Lesbianism: Emily Brontë Reappraised by Claire O’Callaghan

I reached page 160 of ‘Emily Brontë Reappraised’ and read the following:

‘The esteemed scholar Stevie Davies, for instance, has suggested that her own ‘intuition’ indicated to her that Wuthering Heights ‘was not a heterosexual book’ and that Emily was a lesbian, but not a practicing one…’

Immediately, I messaged the group friends I’ve been planning on going to Manchester Pride with. I wrote: ‘do you think there will be any practicing lesbians at Pride?’ The response was a bunch of hilarious comments and emojis (highlighting a sense of disbelief); and raised eyebrows.

I want to emphasise that this terminology is seriously harmful. To suggest someone is a ‘practicing lesbian’ makes a person’s sexuality sound like a form of religious practice: a choice or belief. And that, of course, is ridiculous.

The above extract from the biography – which was written in 2018 – focuses on debunking myths about Emily Brontë. It’s amazing how much has been made up about her; from having a love affair with her brother Branwell, to killing herself. It’s also interesting how much Charlotte influenced our perceptions of Emily, but I’m hoping it was more of a protective measure (that she was worried about what the public would think about her sister and the rest of her family), rather than a purposeful jab at her sister’s reputation.

I enjoyed reading this book (aside from the paraphrasing above). It highlights, more than anything, what we don’t know about Emily Brontë, and that’s really exciting. It means much is down to interpretation, just like her novel, Wuthering Heights.

My favourite chapters are the first and fourth. I was fascinated by Emily Brontë’s life (detailed in Chapter One), and her connection to nature (highlighted in Chapter Four). It conveyed to me what about living (and dying) was most important to Brontë. I’m looking forward to discussing it with my Sixth Formers.

In case you’re interested in the truth about Brontë’s sexuality, there is no evidence to suggest she was a lesbian, or heterosexual, or any other sexual orientation. O’Callaghan highlights that she:

‘…sees huge value in asserting the different ways that Emily defied traditional gender and sexual norms. But to go further than that without evidence merely reinforces an outdated and rather heterosexualised notion of lesbianism.’

I think, here, O’Callaghan is suggesting that because no man is mentioned as a love interest for Emily, people have simply believed she ‘must be a lesbian’. This is, again, another harmful notion, that trivialises all women’s experiences. It reminds me of The Midnight Beast’s satirical song ‘Lez Be Friends’ (2010), which challenges the misogynistic man’s sense of entitlement:

Language can be used as an enlightening and educational, or manipulative and political, tool, which is why it is both fascinating and dangerous. I love Wuthering Heights because it feels like the former. To me, Wuthering Heights is a critique of humanity. I recommend learning more about Emily Brontë, because her personal story is similar to her novel’s: nuanced, and barely decipherable, just like life.

Gaslighting: Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates

I shudder at the moment in Revolutionary Road when Frank Wheeler finds the note from his wife, April, which reads:

‘Dear Frank,
Whatever happens please don’t
blame yourself.’

Here, Frank Wheeler is given an ‘out’. He has it in writing, from April, that he is not to blame for her death.

Frank is a pure example of a gaslighter. He purposely causes April to believe she is unhinged, because she doesn’t want to have a third child (‘All I’m trying to suggest is that you don’t seem to be entirely rational about this thing’); then, when it is too late to have a “safe” abortion, tells her: ‘I wish to God you’d done it.’

So April attempts an abortion (alone), and dies.

Yates published Revolutionary Road in 1961 and yet, disturbingly, gaslighting is still a typical behaviour 60 years on.

Reality TV highlights this especially. Take the episode of ‘Love Island’ in which Joe gaslights and emotionally abuses Lucie:

‘The whole thing with Tommy, I’m not happy with it, it is strange. You were with him for a good hour. [..] You know I like you so much but I do doubt things at times. […] On the outside world, I’d find it disrespectful, and I don’t want to doubt us. […] I think you should get closer to the girls.‘

Joe exhibits controlling behaviour in a number of ways. He tells Lucie who she can and cannot spend time with, and uses flattery (‘I like you so much’) to make her feel bad, and as though she has done something wrong (but she absolutely has not).

Another instance can be found in the series ‘Below Deck’. Kelley lunges at Jennice (kissing her without consent), and when she tells him she’s not interested (due to his character, and because she has a boyfriend), he says:

‘It’s cool. Look, it won’t happen again. I’m good. Listen, I don’t need a prep talk [he holds his hand up to Jennice’s face, to stop her talking], I don’t need a pep talk [Jennice replies: ‘I’m not pep talking you’ and Kelley interrupts:] Yeah you are a little bit. Listen, Jennice, I’m good. Alright, we’ve set our boundaries. I don’t want this to affect our work relationship, so I know where you stand, I know where I stand, we’re good. Alright. So just leave it at that. [Jennice says: ‘Wait’] No, no. I don’t- I’m good.’

Here is another, plain example, of manipulative language and gesture being used to make a woman feel as if she has done something wrong. Kelley reacts in an unnecessary way, and conveys zero empathy towards Jennice.

For reality television shows to display this behaviour – men refusing to accept a woman saying ‘no’ – and not call it out, is dangerous.

In the following episode, Kelley’s sister, Amy, confronts Jennice, and embraces Kelley’s behaviour. Instead of telling Jennice that she as every right to say ‘no’, Amy tells her:

‘You will regret this decision.’

This misogynistic response is yet another example of gaslighting.

By writing the above instances down, I have started to realise how many times I have been gaslighted. It is such a common behaviour, and so frighteningly subtle.

Revolutionary Road is a masterpiece. It is heartbreaking and poignant, and highlights the oppressive behaviour of men like Frank Wheeler. Yates questions and calls out gaslighting, and we should too. It is not OK. We do not need any more Frank Wheelers in this world.

Lalla: Philosopher Queen

When I found out that Lalla – a 14th century Kashmiri mystic – ‘renounced her home and family at the age of twenty-six’ to pursue ‘a search for truth and freedom that requires a radical transformation of body, mind, and awareness’, I was exhilarated. For a long time I’ve focused on the age at which another of my literary heroes wrote Frankenstein: eighteen. Mary Shelley has always made me feel slightly behind in life, as though I’d made some error on my timeline at the point I should have started writing seriously. But coming across Lalla has made me feel differently – inspired and invigorated – because she started her philosophical, poetic, and yogic path at the same age I am now.

Although I don’t practice yoga, I do practice chi, which focuses on training the mind and body in a similar way to Lalla’s own practice. Her poetry highlights the shared concepts between these art forms. I discovered her whilst reading The Philosopher Queens, in an essay by Shalini Sinha (I have quoted her throughout this post). The book is beautifully detailed, and contains reams of information about women philosophers through time. It is edited by Rebecca Buxton and Lisa Whiting.

Lalla – or Lal Ded, or Laleshwari – stood out to me in The Philosopher Queens, not just because of the amazing transformative ideas she shared, but also because she practiced ’emptiness’ of the mind alongside the ‘pursuit of a freedom that is universal and accessible to all.’ Her writing and philosophy has made me feel like I can balance all aspects of my life. Sinha emphasises this, stating the non-dual Śaiva philosophy Lalla practiced:

‘forcefully rejects the divisive, hierarchical and exclusionary categories that organise contemporary social life’ which subverts ‘yogic-tantric practices that are ordinarily considered ‘impure’.’

These ‘impure’ practices are things I thought I was unable to balance with chi practice, such as eating meat (I am currently on a keto diet), and drinking alcohol. I felt a sense of relief when I read that Lalla accepted all of these things. The repose I felt knowing another woman had developed her practice to include ‘unorthodox’ and untraditional elements of life has meant that I no longer feel torn between worlds.

After reading Sinha’s essay, I bought I, Lalla: Lal Ded’s book of poetry. Each poem is approximately four lines long, and offer snippets of an incredible woman, who broke boundaries and crossed thresholds. I feel lucky to have found her.

Meet Cutes: The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy

On gloomy days I close my eyes and open a page of The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy. Wherever I land, the words always says exactly what I need to hear.

Each time I open Mackesy’s story to a random page, I’m reminded of the meet cutes I had in book shops, pre-pandemic. Not meet cutes with humans, but with books. (I’d never go back to my teenage years of imagining I’d find ‘the one’ whilst reaching for the same book. *Cringe.*) One minute I’m tripping over a round table piled with bestsellers, or squeezing past another customer intensely staring at a blurb; the next I’m gazing up at the spine of the next book I want to buy. I do love (and miss) those moments; the ones where the words capture you for some reason, or you like the typography, or the colour scheme is, to you, phenomenal.

I discovered The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse after my Head of Department stuck a copy of one of the pages onto our office door. It was a way to give us courage during a time when we were all struggling: overwhelmed with workloads, coping with lockdown tiers, and supporting our pupils and each other. I think the page she had chosen was the part when the boy and the mole are riding the horse through a stream (the illustrations are beyond beautiful), and Mackesy writes:

“Everyone is a bit scared,” said the horse. “But we are less scared together.”

The words stuck with me. So, just before Christmas, I went out and bought two copies: one for me, and one for my brother. (He has yet to open it, I think, but maybe he’ll need it some day!)

Today I’ve closed my eyes and turned to the following page:

“What do we do when our hearts hurt?” asked the boy
“We wrap them with friendship, shared tears and time, till they wake hopeful and happy again.”

I think The boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse is the book many of us need, pandemic or not. I’m sure we can all think of someone who would benefit from having a copy in their hands. If you have a few quids spare, think about buying a couple of copies, wrap them with friendship, and send them off. Give someone the meet cute moments they’ve been missing: a spark of love and a bit of TLC to help them through.

Miracle Writers: A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

I read A Room of One’s Own at the start of the Christmas break. If you haven’t read it, I urge you to. It will inspire, enrage, and open your eyes to the various connections between women and writing. It helped me to realise the importance of our (as Woolf puts it) ‘mothers’ of literature: the Brontës (Emily is, of course, my favourite); Eliot, Behn, among others (others I should have known about years ago but didn’t until now); and the successful female authors who came later, and still write today.

‘…a woman writing thinks back through her mothers.’

I think I needed to be reminded of the history these writers have given me: the tiny scars left behind by hundreds of years of poverty and misogyny; wounds left open due to continued oppression; all of which impact writing. But I am also a product of their determination and courage; their fearlessness and perseverance. As a writer and a woman, I have come to understand that I write because I am part of their history, and I am bound to them for giving me a sense of purpose, and the bravery to continue.

One of the most memorable and valuable extracts from A Room of One’s Own (and I underlined many), is when Woolf examines which female writers she admires most and why. It is great advice:

‘That, perhaps, was the chief miracle about it. Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without protest, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote […] and when people compare Shakespeare and Austen, they may mean that the minds of both had consumed all impediments…’

I think Woolf is saying that, in order to be a good fiction writer, you must write things as they are, and leave the analysis to the reader. The writer tells a story; they don’t preach or lecture or pin their opinions to the page. If you, the writer, can create characters and places that seem real, and leave your readers with the kind of questions they are left with when they meet someone new in their own lives, then you have produced something good. And if you want the reader to ask very particular questions, then perhaps you can shape your characters in a way that promotes them.

‘I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exalted. Think of things in themselves.’