In their review in New Statesman, the critic pins it down well: “To her mind, the undigested, unacknowledged trauma of AIDS has brought about a kind of cultural gentrification, a return to conservatism and conformity evident in everything from the decline of small presses to the shift of focus in the gay rights movement towards marriage equality.” The gritty, queer, interconnected moment between people of all stripes went through a terrible transformation toward uniformity and drive toward traditionalism in the years that followed. The inimitable Schulman provides us with her experiences during the AIDS crisis in the Lower East Side in her memoir. Sarah Schulman, The Gentrification of the Mind Each describes a kind of rupture, a kind of split-between body and mind, child and family, self and nation-and there is a profound ecstasy that comes when literature confronts contradictions and divisions within us and around us.” Houston writes on her to-read pile, “It is hard to come up with a universal description of this pile of books, except to say simply and plainly-I love them. In one poem, Houston writes, “between lips, / there was a heaving universe / which a lion, a goat, or ship could fall into and be lost forever.” So I was thrilled to learn that the collection of these poems, entitled Standard American English, was published by Litmus Press earlier this month. While the poems were more urgent in the space Houston had created with her performances, it was clear they operated so singularly that they could and should also be available as a book. They scrutinized situations regarding trauma, feminism, class, racism, Blackness, sexuality, family, and so much more in powerful verse. Her poetry about Baby hung on the walls for us to read, which were from third person or Baby’s perspective. Houston read aloud poems that often described the cruelties the character Baby endured in this otherworldly tone. When Houston-as-Baby removed the tape and did speak, it was stilted, slow, and deep. These engagements pointed to issues of racism, society, and our own complicity so directly (shouldn’t we all have raised our hands?), I was haunted by them for days. Her eyes scanned as everyone sat, silent, with their hands down-myself included. Many years ago, I watched her write who here is racist? on a page.
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She had tape over her mouth and wrote a series of questions for the audience on blank pages. In each, Houston assumed the persona of Baby. I first encountered the poet and interdisciplinary artist Elisabeth Houston’s work the way she generally prefers one does: through her performances. Below, you’ll find a writer’s TBR stack, followed by my own commentary on the titles. Entropy folded last year, and Lit Hub has graciously agreed to host this funky little project.
For some time, I ran a series at Entropy in which I would post my own to-read pile along with a guest’s.