9 December, 2014

My Friends Are Aight

The people who really know me, know that FB is not the story of my life. Well, it’s not the story of anybody’s life, but it’s been a real long spell of “not-really-my-life,” for me. And yet, it is, in some good solid ways. Despite my very strong and often contrarian points of view, definitively expressed, I was born to celebrate. I get excited about everything, big or small. The small, even more than the big, because the big takes a little time to digest. The big is like a Pacific NorthWest twilight that takes its own sweet time. The small? Effervescent thrill like the ball drop on Times Square. Why note get giddy about it ASAP!? And so a lot of the joy and silliness that I express on FB is also an essential part of these “not-really-my-life” times.

I go to FB to remember that, more often than not, to throw my whispers and shouts into the vast churning vortex of friends and acquaintances, knowing that my words may light someone up in the way that their words often set me ablaze. Today, I came across two posts (well, one is a quote), that settled into the deepest part of my soul. Here they are.

The first was from Reginald Dwayne Betts. We met many years ago, all agog about our this and our that, bantering with each other about our work and words, our lives. We were both unpublished writers, whose songs were finally being sung in the light. A light that is particular to Ripton, Vermont, at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. This is where Cheryl Strayed and I met, too, though she had a first novel out, and I was serving drinks to the fine and the famous and the aspiring, and delighting in all of it. Both of these people have been an essential part of my life, but even more than that, of my engagement with the world. They are real people, the ones who can get giddy about the silly stuff, but who can also hear the “not-really-my-life” life stories.

Here is Dwayne, reminding me of pretty much everything:

Reginald Dwayne Betts
13 hrs ·
Eighteen years ago today I got locked up. You really do have to pick the dates you remember, but I’m ADHD with the numbers though and so every time the clock strikes 12:08 I think about how you can ruin your life on a humble. Anyway I have work to do and a long night but was thinking that eighteen years ago the future was literally as dark as a life sentence. I still remember so many cell partners. I remember the first cell. I remember the second cell. I remember every single solitary cell. I can still see calluses I earned at pull bars with men named, well they had names. I can see this cat’s ankle protruding out of his skin after he moved a little too quick on the basketball court. Sometimes now my folks folks check up on me. And then I realize that my time stopped and theirs kept on. What you walk around with probably defines you more than where you walk. I can’t really pretend to know that yet. But I did alight since that day in December 18 years back. But shit, if you do run into that time machine, let me know. I can’t rightfully say I’d trade it all – but at least I’d go tell that kid that it would turn out fine.

And here is Cheryl, echoing his words:

Screen shot 2014-12-09 at 11.12.08 AM

28 November, 2014

Thanksgiving

The last time I had Thanksgiving at home was in 2009, the year my mother passed away. I returned from her funeral and the attendant ceremonies (traditions I wrote about in an essay for Narrative, much later), and realized that there were certain obligations I had kept that I just could not stomach. I think there are times in our lives when the large things – big losses, big loves – put everything else in perspective. This was one of them. To me, losing my mother was equal to having children. Those who could not handle the grief of the former or the joy of the latter were, essentially, diminished in my eyes, not just then but forever after.

Perhaps that is judgemental and unforgiving, but I don’t think so. My avowal to stop supporting the ACLU came when I realized they condone the right of the Westboro Baptist “Church,” to protest at funerals. It’s simple. The right to free speech ends where the right to grief begins. And no manifesto should ever trump that. Similarly, nothing should ever stop a person from reaching out to someone who has suffered a loss, particularly the loss of a mother. And surely, no human being can remain unmoved by the birth of a child. These are the basic instincts that make us human: the ones that makes people run into traffic without a second thought, to save someone else’s kid from getting hit by a car, the ones that makes people stop by a dying person, no matter who they are, so they will not die alone. There is simply no excuse for not being able to lend a hand. “I don’t know what to say,” seems like such an inadequate sentence. If birth and death do not move a person hard enough to step out of what feels “comfortable,” then what does?

Hmm. I am not sure this was what I meant to write. I had meant to write about Thanksgiving, and staying at home…but I’ll keep following this thought.

That Thanksgiving, in 2009, I attempted to cook a turkey because that is what one is supposed to do and oh, I was mightily skilled at doing what was expected of me. I put that damned bird in the oven and went on a walk where I raged and wept, but I came home and rolled nutmeats in cocoa-powder (rum balls for dessert!), and attempted to create a same-but-different Thanksgiving. We gathered around a table, a group that included my father who had left and returned with me after my mother’s funeral, and I served the food on platters that belonged to my grand-mother, my grand-mother-in-law (who had always treated me like family), and my mother, and I said something about that, about those platters belonging to and gifted by the women who had raised and guided me. Then we sat down and ate a bird that tasted like reconstituted cardboard, and stuffing with too much salt, and we pretended all was well with the world.

This year was another year when I decided that I would do what I felt like doing, not what I was supposed to do. Many things have contributed to making it a far easier choice to make. I am older, and I am deeply aware of how close I am to having only one tenuous hold, my father, on the people and histories that make me who I am, that when he is no more, I will float unanchored and lost in a cold country. I am conscious, more than ever before, that the obligations I have kept have been to people who have never seen me for who I am, not loved me for where I’m from, not ever understood me, nor cared to try. I have come to see that I had, like Mr. Flynn in the musical, ‘Chicago,’ created a lot of “razzle-dazzle,” and “flim-flam-flourish,” in order to conceal the reality of the immense and overwhelming loneliness that comes from being far from people who love me, from my parents most of all.

This Thanksgiving, I was able to say, fuck the bloody turkey. I hate turkey, and I’m done eating it. I was able to say I would cook whatever the hell I damn well pleased, and invite the people I wanted to share life with: good friends who take me as I am, who share a multitude of pleasures and interests, but are fully themselves, distinct and different and inaccessible in significant ways, but still always present, with their own flaws and fallibilities, people whose children I absolutely adore. I was happy to receive a loving message from my dearest friend, Charles, who has never once forgotten to send such notes to me on all the important times – the times when we are most likely to forget everyone in the midst of festivities like Thanksgiving and New Years and Mothers Days – and I was happy to send one along to a new friend who has come into my life, to where she was, enjoying Thanksgiving with her love and his family. I was able to hear news of other dear friends moving to the West Coast, to be happy for them, knowing that the ties of friendship will not loosen with distance, in the same way the ties of friendship with those and other good friends did not loosen with our own moves to Maine and back. And though the candles that usually line my dining table burned one of the beautifully penned name-cards, and part of the table-cloth, and the table too, I was still happy. Table cloths, name-cards, tables, who cares in the end? The faces of those who gathered, who they are, and who and what they have been to me and mine, they are what heal and lighten my heart.

Thank God for the families we create, for the ones who find us, and take us into theirs.

p.s. The lamb kicked arse.

30 October, 2014

Winning a Prize…

…is pretty damn awesome, I have to say. And the folk at Rochester University know how to make a girl feel like a queen. I’ve been all over the place but somehow the city of Rochester clung to me in a different way. I was sick, but felt compelled to visit the places that meant something to the women who were escorting me all over the place, I was IMAG2140full but had a nice burning hunger every time a plate of food came into view, and though the dance card feels fit to bursting most days, miraculously I wanted all of the marvelous people I met to become friends for life. And as if that wasn’t a surfeit of gifts, it was great that at least two friends from my life showed up to – well, whatdya know – eat and drink with me, thank you Mary Akers, thank you Jen Grotz. It was the experience of af a lifetime for me, and I loved every second of it, but none more than listening to Katherine Manheimer, deliver this gracious and thoughtful introduction. I have never listened to an introduction with more rapt attention than I did to this one. I can’t give you her voice – which is its own mellifluous miracle – but I can give you her words. And next time you want someone to do the audio of your book, consider this woman. She does voices beautifully.

In her novel On Sal Mal Lane, Ru Freeman has written what may seem a work of contradiction – namely, a novel of political history that centers on a group of children too young to vote or fight. Spanning the four years leading up to the Sri Lankan civil war, the book tells the story of the country’s building ethnic tensions even as it focuses its lens on the tiny, day-to-day dramas of the four Herath siblings, aged 7 through 12, who have just moved with their parents to a house on Sal Mal Lane.

The balance Freeman strikes between national politics and the life of this young family is enabled, in part, by her striking choice of narrator: omniscient and highly mobile, this voice can at once present us with the cynical, world-weary perspective of the adult citizens whose malice and self-interest drive Sri Lankan politics, but also the perspective of the child, with its curiosity, its candor, and its emotional chiaroscuro. At first, the omniscient narrator seems a figure we’ve encountered before – in the novels of Jane Austen, perhaps, or George Eliot. And yet, the acute insights that this narrator provides into her child subjects ultimately injects the book with a refreshingly modern sensibility. This child’s-eye view of the universe is what provides the novel with its joy and its poignancy, even as it portrays the hard realities of ethnic hatred.

Again and again Freeman’s narrator emphasizes the separate ways in which the adults and the children perceive social and cultural divisions. For example, upon first learning of the arrival of the new family on the block, longtime Sal Mal Lane residents Mr. and Mrs. Silva remark gratefully on the fact that the Heraths do not belong to Sri Lanka’s Tamil minority group:

“ ‘At least they are our kind. Far too many Tamils already down this lane…’ […] Mrs. Silva named the Tamil people down the lane, unfurling a finger for each one: ‘Mr. and Mrs. Nadesan, who hardly say a word, those piano people, Mr. and Mrs. Niles and Kala Niles, Old Mrs. Joseph, Tamil by marriage, and her son, Raju, even Jimmy Bolling, grandmother was Tamil, after all, so in that family Jimmy and Francie Bolling, the twins, and that dreadful boy, Sonna, and then the Bin Ahmeds, they are Muslims so they might as well be counted with the Tamils. That makes a total of fifteen Tamils down this one lane!’ She said this as if it were new information, not a count that she took on a weekly basis. She rubbed her fingers together as if shaking off all the Tamil people she had mentioned, and began the next count. ‘And Sinhalese? Until now Mr. and Mrs. Tissera and their son, Ranil, and us. Just seven! Now with the Heraths at least we’ll be thirteen.’ […]
‘It will raise the ratio of good to bad among the children at least’ [added Mr. Silva:] the bad to which he referred were the Bolling children, with whom the Heraths were soon to be acquainted.”

But this acquaintance takes a form very different from what we might expect, for the Herath children’s attitude reflects nothing of the prejudice and ill-will that has just been on display. Instead, when the children first meet young Dolly and Rose Bolling, their response is one of surprise, then sympathy. Having invited the twin sisters in for cookies, the Heraths are given their first opportunity to view at close range these girls whose deprived background is so unlike their own well-nurtured upbringing. Focusing, in particular, on the girls’ matted hair, seven-year-old Devi Herath suggests they “use some shampoo like Sunsilk Egg Protein.” The twins explain that they do not have any shampoo, and instead use a certain brand of antiseptic soap – when they’re lucky. At this the narrator pauses:

“All the Heraths grew quiet in the face of this information. Not having shampoo was one thing, but to have to use what their mother referred to as laborer’s soap on one’s hair, was out of the realm of imagination. [At that moment …] Devi resolved to give the twins the two special packets of Sunsilk that had come with the bottle her mother had bought for them, which Devi had been saving just for the sheer delight of feeling the soft-bellied pouches between her palms. [For] if she were Rose or Dolly she’d want someone to give her some Sunsilk too. She arranged her [tea-] treats in a circle in her saucer and separated the two halves of [a] chocolate biscuit. She brought it to her mouth to scrape the cream off with her teeth, but Rashmi [her older sister] touched her arm and shook her head no, and Devi obeyed, pasting the biscuit together again and taking a well-mannered bite off one edge.”

Here Devi, the youngest of her siblings – and herself clearly still in the process of mastering the rules of etiquette and cleanliness – is perfectly able to enter the mindset of these wild little girls from down the street. Indeed, because she is still alert to the sensual pleasures of the simplest things – a pillowy packet of shampoo as she palpates it in her hand; the feeling of her teeth slowly shaving a curl of moist frosting from off of its chocolate backing – this child of college-educated teachers is nonetheless able to relate to her awkward, unwashed neighbors: to what she knows will be their exaltation in real shampoo, in smelling sweet, in brushing their hair afterwards to a soft, sleek shine. In this moment it is Devi’s capacity for wonder in the world around her that ensures her continued humanity.

And in this serious, sweeping, and often heart-breaking novel, it is ultimately this glimpse into childhood’s natural sensitivity and emotional honesty that provides us with a sense of hope for the future – provides us with a belief, that, despite the violence that plagues our world, we may still possess some fundamental capacity for fellow-feeling and peaceful co-existence: for, after all, though we may be adults now, we were all children once.

The Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize, now in its thirty-eighth year, is awarded annually by the University of Rochester’s Susan B. Anthony Institute for Gender and Women’s Studies together with the Department of English. Janet Heidinger Kafka, a graduate of the University, was a young woman just entering a promising career in publishing when she was killed in an automobile accident; in Kafka’s memory, her family, friends, and colleagues established a prize meant to recognize and promote the work of women still at the beginning of their fiction-writing careers. Previous winners have included Ursula K. LeGuin, Toni Morrison, Ann Patchett, and Anne Tyler. It is our honor and great pleasure, then, to extend this award to Ru Freeman. Please join me in welcoming her today.

14 August, 2014

Huffington Post: Rita Zoey Chin

I’m over at Huffington Post talking to Rita Zoey Chin about her exceptionally well-written memoir, Let the Tornado Come. You can read the whole interview here. Below, an excerpt:

Scott Russell Sanders once introduced a reading of his work, A Private History of Awe (FSG, 2006), with a self-deprecating remark that he had sworn he would “never commit memoir.” It was a nod to critics of the genre who hold that one must live a remarkable life, before presuming to recount its vagaries and glories between the covers of a book, though, indeed, what Sanders did was to recount what would be considered a quiet life, with great literary aspect and to lasting spiritual import. Chin’s account of her life, so far from the lower-key evolution of the young boy Sanders was into the adult he became, nonetheless, strikes the same poetic beauty. Let the Tornado Come is not a litany of all that went wrong, but a near euphoric ode to the human spirit that pulls a little girl through each wrong toward a light that makes sense to her and, equally importantly, to each of us. It is one thing to have lived a life worth writing about, but it is a talent to search that undeniably particular life for the moments that can ring true to those who will never know even a second of the darkness that fell so insistently and relentlessly upon her, first as a child, and later as a young adult.

3 July, 2014

One Book to Rule Them All

I’m over at AWP Writer talking about one of my all-time favorite writers, Jamaica Kincaid, and her work. You can read the full piece here. Below, an excerpt:

“Authors are notoriously relentless for culling the gems from the minutiae of their lives. There is a reason why the t-shirt embroidered with these words, careful, or you’ll end up in my novel, generates such awkward laughter. We all do it. Yet See Now Then is not simply a recounting of the entanglement, disappointment, betrayal, and quiescence that are the four corners of the institution of marriage, though it does that with great facility. I read it as a brilliant unpicking of the intricate tapestry of time, the time that it takes to get from one place to another, from being single and full of promise to being discarded and ridiculed, and all the dances in-between: the sultry samba of innocence, the salsa tempo of dreams, the slow tango of motherhood, the quickstep of parenthood, and the graceful sway of bowing off a stage from which one has been effectively, if impolitely, excused. It is about marriage, and it is about everything else.”

22 June, 2014

What is Love?

I’m over at NPR.org talking about one of my favorite books, Alessandro Barrico’s Silk. You can read the full piece here. Below, an excerpt:

Silk

“Baricco has set down a story enshrined in the acceptance that nothing will change, there can be no reversal, no comfort in the certainty that the wish made will one day be fulfilled. In reading the book again, I came to understand that I had been so preoccupied with where I was that I was blind to the journeys I could take with my mind. If bliss can be found in the mere existence of another reality, a country or a lover, distance eventually becomes immaterial.”

15 June, 2014

Poem for My Father

Cucurbitaceae

I do not need the label.
I know what it is,
this bitter gourd.
Curl gnarled knob vegetable
the one children avoid,
concealing it beneath that which is palatable,
its better-loved cousins:
IMG_1903 the ridged vetakolu, the smooth pathola, the tender cucumbers.
Who would shun the better-named, the ladies fingers, say,
such elegance attached to a bundle of sticks,
such variations in texture within, the slippery, the soft, the fibrous, the seed,
a cornocupiea of treasures.
But this one here,
this one served up as a curry, in chunks,
coconut gravy and briny spices,
green chillies and fresh onions,

doing their best to overwhelm that which resists;
as a salad, thin, spidery, pin-wheels deep-fried and tossed
with lime, and white flecks of capsaicin,
with salt to heal, not wound, and yet –
this one merits no mercy.
It is bitter. There is no acquiring a taste for it.
There is no love possible for it.
There is only an understanding of its virtues:
it reduces the high of sugars
it enhances the complexion
it counteracts the defects of birth
it staves off malignancies,
it reduce the infections of the four-lettered scourge of our milieu.
But in this faraway place, displaced from home,
I gaze at the bag that my father has sent.
Consumed, it is panacea;
left alone, long past its date of expiry, it is talisman.
I think of my father’s health.
I wonder, who will send me bitter gourd?

13 June, 2014

Mary, I Miss You Today

Last Friday, around this time, I was thinking of perhaps going to bed. The next morning, at 3.30 a.m. to be precise, I was going to join in a long drive from Philadelphia to a small town in Vermont to be present at a memorial service for my aunt through marriage.

The last time Mary posted on Facebook, this is what she wrote:

Mary Freeman shared a link via Northern Stage.
December 11, 2013
Mike and I went last night and it was great. Really put one in the mood for the holidays. Tonight we are headed to Norwich to a reading by one of my favorite authors, Ann Hood. Of course my favorite has to be my own family member Ru Freeman:).

She and Mike had gone to see Northern Stage (Vermont), put on a production of “White Christmas.” I don’t know what the days were like since then for her, I only know that by on February 24th, when I landed in San Francisco en route to Seattle for a conference (AWP), I turned on my phone to a voice mail that told me that Mary was very ill and was not going to make it. It wasn’t something I was ready to believe. I had seen her over Thanksgiving, and had a particularly lovely memory of that time: an almost adult who is rarely demonstrative, somehow cuddling up to Mary and resting her head on her shoulder.

IMG_1127

How could it be, then, that I’m sitting here now realizing that this particular image of Mary is the last one I have of her? Among the things we’d talked about that Thanksgiving were presents. Somehow, over the years, Mary always seemed to know exactly what to give me as gifts. One particular year, I had been looking at a calendar from Syracuse Cultural Workers that I liked, and also loving – in the gushy way I love and dog-ear and never buy other such things in catalogs – a gorgeous, mostly orange, serving dish for crudités. I never mentioned these things to anybody, I just tossed the catalogs away. And yet, that year for Christmas, she gave me those two very things that I’d been hankering after. In years since, she’s given me many gifts, among them two I treasure greatly – a pair of gorgeous Simon Pearce Thetford tea-lights that have sat on my dining table ever since she gave them to me. How did she know exactly which things catch my heart?

As I listened to the people from Mary’s life describe their relationship to her, and I learned about worlds I hadn’t known Mary was a part of, it occured to me that Mary knew far more about me than I ever knew about her. She had a way of asking questions about my life, not just the one that had come into being when I married her only nephew, nor the person I had become because of that, but the person I had been before I even arrived in the U.S. She was curious about my parents, my brothers, even my friends. She asked after each one by name. She remembered the details of their lives, their marriages and divorces, their struggle with employment, how many children they had. She knew the name of my best friend from childhood, and my best friend in my current neighborhood, and she knew the various estrangements that had occured between each, as well as the forgiving that had taken place. She asked about my writing, bought and gifted copies of my novels, argued with her husband about who might have modeled for the cover of the first, and read every blog post I ever wrote. She didn’t say much on Facebook, but if ever there was something I said that concerned her, or made her laugh, she would message me.

Things like this:

Mary Freeman
Who is taking flying lessons?

Mary Freeman
Ru–are those great nieces of mine giving you grief?? Just tell them that Jerry is coming to town (that should scare them-it would me if I was them). I hope you are in a better space today. Mary

Mary Freeman
Does this mean you won’t be wearing your sexy boots next week? Mike will be soo disappointed.

Mary Freeman
No crutches at the wedding–there is a slope. So, no flinging yourself at passing taxis.

Mary Freeman
I know you shouldn’t pick a book by its’ cover, but I often do and your’s is a beauty!!!!

This is an exchange I remember particularly well:

February 22, 2013
Mary Freeman
What is in Kansas City? Watch out for the twisters.
Ru Freeman
Ha! Winter Institute. Big American Booksellers Association meeting. Lots of socializing with booksellers : )
Mary Freeman
Have fun. Kansas isn’t all straight laced–Melissa Etheridge is from there. I’ve only been through in the early hours of the night. Say hi to Dorothy.
Ru Freeman
I will/ And try to stay on the ground : )
2/24, 9:48am
Mary Freeman
When are you flying home? NBC has Kansas City as the bull’s eye for a major storm–stay safe, my friend.

But most of all, messages like this one:

Mary Freeman
Ru, I hope you are happier than you look–you seem sad, but that can’t be (can it?). You must be exhausted and running on adrenaline. We have friends that are moving to Petaluna as I write this and I’ve told them about your appearance at Copperfield’s. Stay happy and healthy. Love, M.

It was to Mary – visiting me at an apartment in Holyoke – that I blurted that if things did not work out with the boyfriend (her nephew), I would never want to be involved with some guy again; it was too much work and trouble. She found that a bit shocking, given that I was just a freshman in college, what could I know of the blows of life and the viccicitudes of marriage after all, but she listened anyway, talking with me about things that concerned me, neither affirming this sentiment nor trying to talk me out of it, simply communicating, while letting me be.

Of her life, I only knew the things that she chose to tell me. Most of the time she talked about her friends (Michelle, Sue), and the various comings and goings between the households – often involving pets and Leah, her daughter – she told me about Mike and his caving, marathons, and work, and she shared her stories of Leah. Leah as a seven year old, Leah as a teenager, Leah with boyfriends, Leah in college, and Leah planning a wedding. But the reasons for the things she did, or the passion behind what moved her, these escaped me. It seems strange, looking back, that I didn’t ask her more questions than I did. It is a habit with me, after all, the asking of questions, the trying to understand what’s what with people. But not with Mary. She was so good at deflecting attention, and making it seem as though it would be okay to let all the light shine on me. Mary, in more ways than I can count, let me be a child, focussing on my doings, accomplishments, trials, and joys as though they were all that needed to occupy the space between us.

So much of the gentler moments in our lives come about because someone is willing to do what Mary was so good at doing – expressing repeatedly, year after year, how genuinely interested they are in us, and our evolution. At her memorial, I gazed out at rows of tables laden with quilts that Mary had made for her beloveds over the years. It seemed so fitting a display of the giving aesthetic of her heart, as well as the complexity of someone I had always enjoyed being with, but never knew completely. One day, some day, I imagine that the whys and wherefores of her life will be revealed to me through anecdote and memory. For now, there is only the steady knowledge that she loved me and was always willing to show it.

Candles

12 June, 2014

Books, Reviews, and all that Jazz

A friend sent this bit of the New York Times along to me yesterday, with the note, “how long have I had this now?” She had clipped it at my request, and not got around to sending it.

NYT

As I looked at the books on this list, I realized for the first time that Colum McCann (Transatlantic), and I made it on the same day with our books. I had been gifted that book before we did a panel together at the Brooklyn Book Festival and I was the book is signed both by the friend who gave it to me and Colum (something that the latter found a bit bemusing – how many writers have to sign a pre-signed book?)

Oh wow! I went looking for a link to the festival event that we did and came across this post from Greenlight Books which mentions our panel, and goes on to say where they heard about it – in the New Yorker! So what if I don’t have my fiction in there yet? That’s my name. In The New Yorker, people!!!

The Brooklyn Book Festival takes place this Sunday in Borough Hall Plaza, with dozens of free literary panels, workshops, and children’s events throughout the neighborhood. To name just a few: Hilton Als and the philosophers Alexander Nehamas and Simon Critchley will discuss the notion of beauty in the new opera “Anna Nicole”; Pete Hamill, Adelle Waldman, and Adrian Tomine will compare their literary depictions of Brooklyn; the Sri Lankan writer Ru Freeman, the Iraqi writer Sinan Antoon, and the Irish writer Colum McCann will discuss political conflict in fiction; and Jennifer Gilmore, Claire Messud, and Jamaica Kincaid will consider the role of motherhood in their latest novels. (Here is a full list of events.) Also taking place this weekend, Friday through Sunday, is the NY Art Book Fair at MOMA PS1.

Anyway, I loved meeting him and talking about our work on stage and after, about politics and the things that truly matter. And this clipping here – it reminded me of the high points we forget as we careen madly seeking the next milestone. I remember being so thrilled that I woke up at some ungodly hour in order to ambush the grocery store and buy 20 pounds worth of the NYT when the review itself came out. And then I left one copy lying around the house hoping someone would notice. Suffice to say, there wasn’t much notice – except of the “what’s for breakfast?” kind of notice that I wasn’t courting and certainly was not expecting on this biggest of all big days since I began writing.

Yet, no matter the reception on the domestic front, it was a magnificent moment and one I don’t for a moment take for granted, nor assume will ever be repeated. It reminds me of a feeling that came over me one early August morning in Maine as I got ready to head out to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. Maine = pre-book deals, by the way. I remember feeling an immense sense of astonishment and gratitude thinking about myself, a girl who had come all the way from my small island country, without an aspiration in the world except to somehow do something worthwhile with my life though what that worthwhilian accomplishment would be was still a mystery. And how in that time I had somehow worked at two of the best organizatios in the U.S., The Institute for Policy Studies, and the American Friends Service Committee, and had also miraculously been invited to return to that campus in Ripton where so many brilliant American authors had first read their poetry and prose.

There’s a popular song, “Bubbly” – I can always come up with a popular song to go with my sentiments – talks about a feeling that starts in my toes/makes me crinkle my nose etc. That’s the feeling I get when I get to thinking about these things. They make me say, not that I deserved it, but that I was very fortunate. Somehow the people and events around me aligned right for these things to happen. Being at Yaddo is something I think about in this way, and being given the opportunity to converse with Jamaica Kincaid. Having a press that I admired for so long, Graywolf Press, publish my work, is another. As is having Julie Barer, someone I’d hoped might be interested in my writing, become both an agent and a kind and nurturing spirit in my life. And what about all the places I’ve been asked to come to, the people I’ve had the immense priviledge of meeting? What about that first publication of a personal essay, or the most recent, another personal essay? What about each small poem and bit of prose? What of all the deep and soul-sustaining friendships that have formed and thrived over these years?

So many things in this writing life of mine that have brought me such joy in such deep and immeasurable ways…There’s a vast world of generosity and beauty and real happiness that I’ve been asked to step into. How easy to forget.

It seemed important to note that gratitude in some way, to truly think about the fact that while we look to the end of a journey, we also climb and descend many peaks. Now is a good place to be, when I remember to be there.

5 June, 2014

Where Does Passion Live?

Delighted to be over at Words Without Borders, writing about my childhood home and city, Colombo, for the Words Without Borders, The City & The Writer series curated by Nathalie Handal. It was such a pleasure for me to write it and now, a few months on, to re-read what I had forgotten I’d said. Here is one of the sections:

What is your most heartbreaking memory in this city?

I returned home in October 2009, for my mother’s funeral. One morning as required by Buddhist custom, my older brothers and I took her ashes to set them adrift in the Kelani River. I held the urn in my arms as we drove. It was a simple, round receptacle, so small. It felt like I was holding an infant, all of my mother’s body reduced to these ashes in this cool clay urn. I felt protective and bereft. I wanted to say I was finally able to give to her this thing that she had taught me to give to the world—to see the child, the “some mother’s child,” in them no matter how old they were. I had never given her that, she had always been bigger to me, more than a child, indefatigable, irrepressible, a deity. And I realized I could not. It broke my heart in ways I would not have believed possible. I believe that was her last gift to me.

You can read the entire piece here.

The Books:

The Books:

On Sal Mal Lane

In the tradition of In the Time of the Butterflies and The Kite Runner, a tender, evocative novel about the years leading up to the Sri Lankan civil war.

A Disobedient Girl

A Disobedient Girl is a compelling map of womanhood, its desires and loyalties, set against the backdrop of beautiful, politically turbulent, Sri Lanka.


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