In Singapore, fan-girling hard
When I was 11 years old, I won first place for the fifth grade in a school wide writing contest. This landed me a place in an old school white limousine and lunch at TGIFriday's (I think--it could also have been Perkins or Baker's Square). I remember writing in a tiny notebook in my bedroom when I was in grade school, trying to imitate the authors I was reading, creating stories of protagonists and their beautiful horses. In high school, I wrote poetry dripping with angst and emotion. Poetry made its way onto my bedroom walls in sheets (and so many years later permanently onto my arm).
It wasn't until I moved abroad, though, 20 years after that 5th grade award, that I realized how integral writing was, is, to my identity. In the last six and a half years, I find that unless I write regularly, I struggle to process my experiences deeply. I feel a bit lost and detached from myself. I close my eyes to see myself floating in a dark amorphous space that begins to take clearer shape when my fingers finally have time to connect with my keyboard.
So here I find myself today -- as a wild rice chicken casserole bakes in the oven, as Silvie has just knocked over the full garbage, again -- tuning in to myself, and reflecting on meeting an incredible writer in Singapore last weekend.
I first encountered Roxane Gay when a friend forwarded an instagram story to me. The Grammer (like the Tweeter) was talking about the characters in Gay's Difficult Women. I bought the iBook pronto, and found myself immersed in story upon story of women in the midst of tragedy, ambiguity, fear, hope and growth. As international life would have it (that is just slightly cringy -- I hear the privilege in all of this), I was at a conference in Nanjing as I was reading the book. Noting my newfound enamorment (the New Baci Dictionary hits print in June) with Roxane Gay's writing, a couple of friends who live in Singapore told me that Gay would soon be making an appearance in Asia for the Singapore Writer's Festival.
In moments like this, I feel entirely inspired by Mark Twain's words: "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." I am thus less in touch with what I remember from reading Rich Dad, Poor Dad, the book my own dear dad bought me when I started to have to consider the notion of adulting. (Let's be real -- the sobrinas aren't expecting for there to be any money in my will to do anything more than support the cats.)
So, aYOLOing I went. My dear friend Ceci was present at this moment, and she endorses all things spontaneous -- within seven minutes, I had a hotel and plane ticket to Singapore for the festival, and a ticket for a seat in front of Ms. Roxane Gay.
As I sat looking up at this queen, I was moved by so many of her words, not just those she was reading from her book, but those that kept echoing truth throughout the auditorium. "You don't have to find your voice. It's already there, you just have to allow yourself to access it," said Gay in her soft but firm voice. As a writer, as a woman, as the me who is working in so many ways to evolve, I found comfort here, a reassurance that I did not have to go rummaging through so many boxes sometimes, yelling "Marco" into an internal void, hoping to hear "Polo" singing back. Gay's words align with my mindfulness practice, with yoga and meditation and coming to see that we already have what we need inside of us; it is about sitting in enough stillness to feel it.
Getting in touch with my own Divine Feminine, it's been a journey, one that will continue until the end of my days, but I have felt that power rising, rising in my breath, rising in my heart, rising in my voice. In a time when Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's We Should All Be Feminists is taught in international classrooms (mine for one!), where Emma Watson becomes the voice of the HeForShe campaign, some are asking about what we are asking for from men. Gay's response: "Just be a fucking feminist, which just means women are people. " Mmmm, yasss, I murmured. I love when we stop mincing words.
At the end of Gay's session, the audience was invited to a book signing outside of the auditorium. I had purchased three of her books before her talk began, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body, Ayiti and An Untamed State. Employing my greatest efforts to avoid my own greed, I had decided to have Ms. Gay sign Ayiti as it was the only hardcover book that I had purchased. As I approached the table she was seated behind, I smiled shyly and began stammering about how I had come from China to see her, that I had just really discovered her writing. To my surprise, and delight, Ms. Gay looked up at me in her own surprise and said, "You came all the way from China?!" We engaged with one another for a few more moments and then the cameraman asked if he could snap a photo of us. I yammered a yes, looking at Ms. Gay to see what she thought about the question. Somewhere in the internets, friends, this photo exists. I have yet to find this golden picture, but I'll be looking until I do.
After the snap of the photo, I mumbled a few more words of thanks to this incredible human. I walked with legs of Jell-o towards my friend Ana Maria whose mouth was also agape. Best day ever, I said, wearing my biggest grin.
For the past week, I have been immersed in all things Roxane Gay. If somehow this blog makes its way to your computer, Ms. Gay, my most heart-felt congratulations on your engagement. My deepest gratitude for your strength, your writing, your voice.
And, as I close here, now from Shenzhen, I wonder what would happen for each of us, if we heeded some of my favorite words of Ms. Gay's from that sunny day in Singapore: "Open your lives. Open your hearts."