http://www.minnpost.com/artsarena/2010/03/03/16388/minnesota%E2%80%99s_creative-writing_mfa_programs_thrive_despite_the_economy

Sherry

Why do we write?  Or, if you’re thinking about writing, what blessings may blossom from your words? (I like to think of flowers this time of year.  I received a gift of rose s on Valentine’s Day.  They are now wilted and need to be discarded.  My colleague, though, has pastel tulips in her office where I can occasionally see them, and utter, ahhhhhhhhh.  This is Minnesota and the prospect of spring is certainly on my mind.)

How can we conjure the prospect of mysterious and perhaps magical happenstance (sometimes I use words I don’t know out of spite for the time someone shamed me for using a particular word wrong, in hopes I might be right this time) because we are writers?  For me, writing has brought me family, and friends, and a whole lot of lovin’—okay, I’m still “Imagining Love”—the lover and the lovin’ not yet a combo, but love is in the air (funny how many clichés are associated with spring).

I’m struggling here to get started.  Sometimes a writer has to write a whole lot of pages before clarity rears its beautiful face.  As I ramble along before I get to the aha! you will understand what I mean by this.  There’s so much I want to say right now.  I want to talk about the recent workshop I taught with Lori, but I also want to talk about a relative I didn’t know I had, who found me by Googling me, having gotten my name from her mother, who happened to have my first chap book, A LITTLE MIXED UP, published by Guild Press in the early 80’s.  (Another aside, did you know many of those little chap books published just a couple of decades ago, can be found online for big bucks! ?  Amazing!  And wonderful.  All those out of print works of art, rediscovered and sold online by speculators. )

I want to talk about beyond writing, if that makes any sense.  I earned an MFA in Creative Writing just to prove I was smart enough to get an education.  I was, though it was hard work because I didn’t really have the education I needed to continue to advance my education.  In other words, I was brought up in a family of five, on welfare and silence (more than I want to get into here).  I didn’t understand about class or race or gender when I was growing up, but looking back I know how much all of that stuff played a part in who I am today.  Not only did I not know how to eat steak, so the first time a date took me out for a steak dinner, part of the steak went flying as I tried to manipulate it with my knife and fork, but I didn’t know words, or the few I did know I didn’t know how to manipulate them to show I was from a different “class” than I was, but even if I had, can you really upgrade from the class you were born in (another discussion entirely).

I believe everyone should write and can.  And I believe writing should be shared.  Sharing is easy today in today’s world of the internet:  social networks, Google, Web sites, instant messaging, etc. (I say etc. because truly I am not Web savvy and it may be another lifetime before I have any desire to be a computer geek).  But first, before the internet, I started sharing my work in small group writing workshops.  This built small communities of writers.  Each of us writers belonged to other communities.  Friendships and networking happened.  Eventually I taught my own workshops.  Friendships and networking happened.  My first workshop was taught in my neighborhood coffee shop.  No students had enrolled, so I became super salesperson before I became teacher.  The class eventually consisted of a husband, close friends, and others I had never met.  Of those participants, I am still in contact with several of them, even the husband who became an ex-husband (not  an ex because of the workshop).  I became mentor to a couple of the participants.  Lori was one of the participants who I reconnected with a few years after the workshop . We now collaborate, performing our work and teaching.  What I’m trying to say here is that writing is more than (okay can be more than) writing.

Because I have been writing since the early 80’s and have had some poems published here and there, I have a Web site and I have this blog site and I’m on other sites and sometimes there may be an announcement or a book review here or there that lands on the internet.    I’m saying, you can Google me (I certainly have) and if you want to connect with me in cyber space, you probably can.  In fact, because of the internet a cousin found me, and recently a second cousin who lives in Texas found me because of my first little chapbook, and Googling my name on the internet.  This is what I’m trying to say.  I don’t confess to being the best writer in the world, my last royalty check was in the negative (that will change as soon as I retire and have time to market my books, really Victor, I promise). But,  I write about identity because there is no one in the world like me, just as there is no one in the world like you.  We have our own identity, our own stories.  And guess what, if we take the process of writing beyond the process of writing and enter the process of after the writing someone might notice.  Someone might notice (don’t hold your breath for million dollar book deal or a world book tour), but someone might notice you , who may be a long lost relative, or just someone interested in your writing,  or interested in writing in general–and that someone may become part of your life for awhile or for a lifetime.  That’s the aha! (Or they may want to hire you to be a writing mentor, or may want to subscribe to your blog, or they may want to register for one of your workshops.)

I write on my lunch hour, sometimes, like now.  I don’t have time to re-vision or revise (I do take time for a quick run through for typos, though I still might not catch them all, no apologies).  But, that’s okay.  You get a chance to witness a rough draft, lol (laugh out loud, I thought this meant lots of love and couldn’t figure out why a particular people sent me lol) and I get to send another something into the cyber world and hope that somehow somewhere my writing makes connections for me or for you.

Lori and I recently taught a writing workshop for women about women.  We hope to teach it in Mankato, MN this spring.  This workshop was for writers and nonwriters alike.  We honored the women or a particular woman in our lives.  We honored grandmothers, mothers, sisters, and friends.  We viewed maps, and photographs, and journals and other things to help conjure the women we wanted to write about, even those we didn’t’ know we wanted to write about. Connections were made. 

It’s about the writing, but it’s also about beyond the writing—after the writing.

Feel free to leave comments about your experiences with “after the writing.”

Sherry

2/23/2010lunchtime

“There was a woman here who was loved.” Joy Harjo

February 20, 2010
10 a.m. to 4 p.m.

TRUE COLORS BOOKSTORE http://truecolorsbookstore.com/

SHARING OUR WOMEN’S STORIES: AN ORAL TRADITION will focus on stories of women in our lives. Stories of women in our families, and/or stories of women who have crossed our paths. Is there a particular woman you want to or need to write about?

This workshop is for writers and non-writers alike—everyone has stories!

Join Sherry Quan Lee and Lori Young-Williams for a lively and thought-provoking day of writing (letters, poems, and/or short narratives). We will use photos, maps, memorabilia, and history books. We will read stories by other women, as well as our own—stories recalled from great-grandmothers, grandmothers, mothers, sisters, aunts, and girlfriends.

This will be an engaging day of story sharing –written / visual / oral!!!

Cost for workshop: $40.00 plus a donation to True Colors bookstore of a used book or dvd. Please bring cash or check payment to the workshop. To register, e-mail Lori at youngwms@yahoo.com. Workshop limited to twelve participants.

Lori Young-Williams is a 41year old prose poet born in St. Paul. She comes from a working class family that believes in laughter, crying, and praying when times are good, bad or otherwise. Lori has one brother, one sister, and another sister who passed away when she was 14. She received her degree in Human Relationships with an emphasis in
family relationships at the University of Minnesota, 1992. Lori works a 9-5 job in Human Resources and Finance, but her passion is her writing. Most of her poetry is about her family—family relationships and how they impact her life. She has been published in Interrace magazine, the Turtle River Press, the National Library of Poetry, Quill Books, Dust & Fire and other anthologies. Also, she has self- published two chapbooks. She has read in various bookstores, coffee shops, and spoken word events in the Twin Cities. Lori recently was accepted as a participant for the Givens Black Writers Retreat, with
Sonja Sanchez and Carolyn Holbrook. She is currently working on her Master’s Thesis through the Master of Liberal Studies program at the University of Minnesota. She has studied with Rose Brewer, Carolyn Holbrook, Sherry Quan Lee, and others.
http://blog.lib.umn.edu/leexx065/writingmulticulturalidentity/

Sherry Quan Lee approaches writing as a community resource and as culturally based art of an ordinary everyday practical aesthetic. Quan Lee taught Creative Writing at Metropolitan State University for ten years, and continues to teach community workshops such as Stories that Save Lives, and Bookmaking. Currently she is a Program Associate for the Split Rock Arts Program Summer Workshops and Seasonal Retreats at the University of Minnesota. She has done consulting for SASE: The Write Place, a community based literary organization. She was a selected participant for the Loft Literary Center’s Asian Pacific Inroads Program, and in 2000 she was the mentor for that program. She was a selected participant for the Asian American Renaissance’s (AAR) Writers’ Block Program to mentor youth. She edited several of AAR’s annual journals, and curated AAR cabarets. Quan Lee was a selected participant for the first Cave Canem retreat for Black Poets in Esopus, New York. She earned an AA degree at North Hennepin Community College (has since been honored as a Distinguished Alumni), and a BA and MFA at the University of Minnesota. Quan Lee has edited Body of Stories, the fifth journal of the Asian American Renaissance, and Spirits, Myths and Dreams: Stories in Transit, the fourth journal of the Asian American Renaissance; as well as, I Am Who You Fear I Am, poems by Deborah Kelly, (distributed by Kitchen Table Women of Color Press) Corn Songs, poems by Virginia Allery (Turtle Mountain Reservation), and Chromosomes and Genes: an interracial anthology, (Guild Press, 1980’s). Quan Lee is the author of A Little Mixed Up, Guild Press, 1982 (second printing), Chinese Blackbird, a memoir in verse, published 2002 by the Asian American Renaissance, republished 2008 by Loving Healing Press, and How to Write a Suicide Note: serial essays that saved a woman’s life, Loving Healing Press, 2008. http://www.SherryQuanLee.com
http://www.blog.sherryquanlee.com

From Ernest,

You know I am omniscient and always go where no one has gone before. So let me surprise you with my audio poem at a new site that hosts audio poems. Mine is from my second poetry book Two Candles. The link is http://thepoetspeak.com/. If you would like to get your audio poem posted, feel free to contact the editor.

Wishing you all well,

Ernest

Look for Minnesota writer Theresa Crushon in current issue of RECOVERING THE SELF!

Check it out! This is the site I almost wrote for, but I had a change of mind (as you know, I may have a lot to say, but I don’t get it down in writing to say it very often). When the contract came back postage due, I knew I had made the right decision! But, now, Bao has started writing for YourVoices–yes, he used to skateboard in my neighborhood/my front yard with my sons–that’s what he told me–memory fades!

Is it too late, am I too old to become a Spoken Word Artist? Yes and no. How to memorize my own words? I ask students to memorize a poem, they sigh. I used to say, when I memorize my poems, I will know I am a poet. I’ve been writing poetry since second grade. This month I will be of social security age. I have only memorized one five line poem of mine. It’s enough. No pressure.

But, I do admire Minnesota’s Spoken Word Artists; I do appreciate Bao Phi’s work as an artist, and an activist–keeping Asian American voices visible and heard (what’s the antonym for silent? seriously. visible and loud? this is why I don’t blog often. wordsmithing? i get caught up in language. what words am i supposed to know and understand and use correctly? a topic for another blog entry. lunch is over. extended actually. another time)

Sherry

http://www.startribune.com/yourvoices/80632997.html?elr=KArks47cQiUdcOy_9cP3DiU47cQUU

Happy Holidays everyone.

XXXXXXXXXXX

you asked me for a poem. A clever and brazen
request. It’s not so easy. Poems come and go. Fly
like rage into the night; pink elephants big and heavy,
sobering. How to write a show poem full of dance
and song. Happy is a place I know, though who would believe it?
Words run amok telling stories bound in anger; reactions.
I am safe inside a poem.
Outside, when the wind blows bullets, I hunker low
eat silence, not so brave. Today,
I ask forgiveness. Talk and write from a gentle heart,
my gut recovering slowly. Forgive me for not knowing
the devil in men sooner than later. But do you believe
in fate? The world spins so quickly. I was afraid
I would be left dying, pronounced imperfect, immoral.
If intuitively I could have recognized love’s imperfections,
instead of believing because someone says he loves you
he loves you. Some clichés are to be taken seriously actions
speak louder than words (this is not about you). To speak/action.
Not to speak/inaction. A poet needs words, has faith in words.
You have asked for a poem. Here it is. You have said tell me
so I understand. Thank you. So here it is. You, I have taken
slowly. Cautious. Devil and angel. I embrace you, trustworthy,
with wild enthusiasm. I don’t expect devil to harm, nor angel
to deceive. Still, I won’t imagine conclusions because
I am not seeking endings. In answer to your question, yes,
I believe in fate; I also believe in choice. Thank you
for the conversation, please, more. Curiosity
is the Christmas gift I give to both of us.

Sherry Quan Lee
Copyright, December 21, 2009

Don’t know what to give that special someone?  Three days ‘til Christmas eve, Kwanza five days away, a New Year just around the corner; whatever the occasion, don’t forget you can give a poem.  A poem costs nothing but your time, asks nothing more, nothing less than your heart. 

Recently, someone I met asked me for a poem.  I have thought about his request, not sure what poem I could write, or how to get started.  When faced with what to give someone I didn’t know well, but getting to know better every day, I realized the best thing to give would be what he asked for. 

At lunch today, I was determined to write a gift poem.  I didn’t have time between my little seedless oranges, and salami crusted in black pepper and Colby cheese on dinner rolls, to spend any more time pondering.  So I said to myself, what is my “theme”?  Currently my theme is IMAGINED LOVE.  Such irony.

Here is the first draft of my gift poem (I will also be giving him the book Curious?: Discover the Missing Ingredient to a Fulfilling Life by Todd Kashdan .  Go ahead.  Write a gift poem today.  On your afternoon break.  Or, tomorrow at lunch.

No one to give a poem to?  Give it to me.  Or better yet, give it to the world.

NAME GOES HERE

asked me for a poem.  A clever and brazen

request.  It’s not so easy.  Poems come and go.  Fly

like rage into the night; pink elephants big and heavy,

sobering.  How to write a show poem full of dance

and song.  Happy is a place I know, though who would believe it? 

Words run amok telling stories bound in anger; reactions. 

I am safe inside a poem.

Outside when the wind blows bullets, I hunker low

and eat silence, not so brave.  Today,

I ask forgiveness.  Talk and write from a gentle heart,

my gut recovering slowly.  Forgive me for not knowing

the devil in men sooner than later.  But do you believe

in fate?  The world spins so quickly.  I was afraid

I would be left dying, pronounced imperfect, immoral. 

If intuitively I could have recognized love’s imperfections,

instead of believing because someone says s/he loves you

s/he loves you.  Some clichés are to be taken seriously actions

speak louder than words (this is not about you).  To speak/action.  Not

to speak/inaction.   A poet needs words, has faith in words. You have asked

for a poem and here it is.  You have said tell me so I understand. 

Thank you.  So here it is.  You, I have taken slowly. 

Cautious.  Devil and angel.   I embrace you, trustworthy,

with wild enthusiasm.  I don’t expect devil to harm, nor angel

to deceive.  Still, I won’t imagine conclusions because

I am not seeking endings.  In answer to your question, yes,

I believe in fate; I also believe in choice.  Thank you

for the conversation, please, more.  Curiosity

is the Christmas gift I give to both of us. 

Sherry Quan Lee

Copyright, December 21, 2009

First Draft

Sherry Quan Lee’s book, Chinese Blackbird, is a fascinating narration of how race is lived in the United States today. Born to a Black mother and a Chinese father, much of Sherry Quan Lee’s life was spent understanding race as she lived it in the United States.  In the opening poem of the collection, she writes, “I am pregnant with myself / gestation: fifty years.” She comes to poetry later in life, but with the emotional power and languages of a convert.

Quan Lee describes her lfe, “Like a magnolia / –whose sepals never fuse00 / my life is disparate / here a Black / community, //there an Asian / community, // everywhere, white.” Chinese Blackbird is the narrative of Quan Lee’s life and her exploration of race, gender, love, and marriage. It is fierce and tender, angry and understanding, hurt and honest.

Some might call the book, not a poetry collection, but a textual gathering of one woman’s life. Indeed, the poems are accented by photographs of Quan Lee and her family and her birth certificate. They are important visual moves in the collection, adding connection for the reader to these poems. Many of the poems are written in the style of prose poems, such as “Magnolia Cafe,” “Mother’s and Mine,” and “I Ask My Husband if He Thought I was a Lesbian and He Said Yes.” This density of language and narrative builds throughout the book to Quan Lee’s final assertion of herself as an autonomous Chinese/Black/Woman in “I Am the Snake I feared,” she writes,

Sometimes I think I’m whispering
when you complain I’m hissing.

I’m sorry if my word are noisy, but

I haven’t left. I’m not leaving.
Only my thoughts wander

I am home, for the first time
in fifty-four years, venomless.

Quan Lee’s poems and this book, Chinese Blackbird, are the examples of the space and legacy that Jorddan and Lorde dreamed when they wrote their truth on the page.