THIS ONE HETERONYM

Young Folks Who Write: The Beginnings

(Photo: My father and I, a frightened glow worm)

I think often about young folks, poetry and accessibility - which makes sense because my life as of recent has revolved around all three, either overlapping, working harmoniously, or tested. Youth work, teaching artist work, education work. The myth of poetry as a form of study relegated to the academics, elitists - that only some forms of poetry are immediately accessible to communities without the privilege to read more “difficult” forms through and through.

I’ve found that before I can start writing creative curricula for youth, I’ve had to unravel how I learned, what moved me as a child and what continues to move me now. I think about the way I speak to different people, how I communicate certain loaded ideas (side note: How do you explain to a child in a noisy classroom with five minutes to spare what a “fob” is, how your family is implicated, how theirs is part of this discourse as well?)

And because writing doesn’t come “naturally” for everyone - whether someone never had the opportunity to pursue it at length in a pleasurable manner in their early age, cultural dismissals of creative writing’s worth, the widespread impact of standardized testing pedagogy, etc. And because of all this - asking someone to write is a large demand, rife with emotional triggers, resistance, dismissal, apathy. I try to be careful when I plan lessons, thinking about who I’m working with, the particular individuals in the group who might struggle with certain topics or abilities, and also simultaneously challenge them to go beyond what they thought they were capable.

One student in a class I was shadowing surprised us with a poem about his uncle as a U.S. soldier in Iraq. Already he understands so much about how masculinity functions in our society, what demands they make of him in particular as a black boy negotiating his own masculine identity, and how it goes back to his school environment which undoubtedly reinforces it. I wonder what he’ll do with writing from now going forward - will it be a place of inquiry? Or will it slowly fall out of his life, become a compulsory practice enforced through penmanship exercises, dry expository writing drills, etc?

I don’t remember the first poem I ever read and only until recently I’ve pinpointed several places to start. One: There was a time when I stopped writing and could not. I would come to realize there would be more than one instances of this blockage as I go on. In my last year of high school, my father was diagnosed with stage four of pancreatic cancer and was dated to live for six months into my first year of college. Those months dragged on, his body went, and finally, we nested in a small hospital room throughout my winter break, both X-mas and New Year’s.

When I read Tina Chang’s “Letter to a Stranger” for the very first time, it was as if my grief was stone, solid, matter, and everything that grieving in its typical sense is not. For the first time, I came across a poem where the object of grief was not someone deemed initially immortal and rather set forth a series of imperfect, volatile events. There is such a formality to grief in the way we live it sometimes, and I think for me at that moment, the poem reflected the way grief read most truthfully to me - that while the poem by no means suggests that the poet felt that way about their father or that I felt that way about mine, it most certainly cut through a difficult place, and gave me permission to explore my grief in a cathartic way through writing poems of my own.

I share this because when I ask young folks (or any writers for that matter) to open up about their stories, I think on moments like these that taught me to write (and write truthfully) and the immensity of this request. Would I be so bold to share this type of poem at a younger age? Probably not. I have a lot of respect for young folks who try and take their writing seriously, regardless of whether or not they “actually” (orally or otherwise) share their work.

I hope as my work continues that I remember the lessons of my teachers, to translate the most successful parts of my education to creative lessons that resonate most effectively with future writer-participants. Most importantly, I hope that I never forget that young folks teach me plenty and to allow them to continue to teach me.

Poet Pals: Seeking Writing Buddy for Short to Long Term Creative Support

While it’s true that New York City presents a vibrant, writing community rife with resources, opportunities and artists, there’s no arguing - being a poet is rough. Whether it’s economic instability, lack of access to resources, space or time, we all need a little support to get that manuscript polished by its submission deadline.

Be a pal! Join me in a potentially mutually beneficial writing partnership where we can 1) offer each other creative support through writing prompts, poetry dates and project follow through 2) hold each other accountable to our respective deadlines 3) be a source of personal and professional support through the ups and downs 4) go to a reading together, have coffee and yes - actually talk about said reading.

Seeking:

• Emerging poet who is serious about poetry  
• Would benefit from a one-on-one support system with a fellow writer
• Has a writing project in mind that needs developing
• Can dole out and is receptive to honest and helpful critique
• Critical of “marketing” language applied to self-promotion and publicity of one’s body of work
• Able to discuss politics and poetry as singular and NOT occasionally overlapping subjects
• Reads poets within and outside of the traditional canon
• Interested in experimenting with poetry and other art forms
• Preferable: Lives in New York City
• Preferable: Identifies as a queer person of color

Fit the bill? Let’s talk. Email me at Mleung@gm.slc.edu and let me know what type of support you’re looking for to further your writing.

Who am I?

Muriel Leung is a poet, youth worker and activist based in Queens, NY. She received her undergraduate studies from Sarah Lawrence College where she studied postcolonial literature, critical race studies, and poetry. Currently, she’s working on her first full length manuscript about ghosts and the geography of memory.

Multi-Book-Tasking

Just to give you an idea of where my head is at (poetically):

[1] My poet friend/pen pal and I swapped books: My Patrick Rosal’s American Kundiman for her Juan Gelman’s Unthinkable Tenderness. It is currently bookmarked 1/4 of the way in.

[2] Bhanu Kapil Rider’s Vertical Interrogation of Strangers arrived in the mail. A text I’ve reread many times over and brief subway companion for a while. Had coffee with a friend from Community Word Project’s Teaching Artist Training Internship Program who wanted to possibly collaborate on photography + text project based on the concept of “Individual Stories”. Before I knew it, I was handing the book to her and suggesting she consider playing with ideas of the collective (communities) and the individual. I miss it and may ask for it back soon.

[3] Finished Bhanu Kapil Rider’s Incubation, again a mock semi-sociological prose poetry text with a twist about cyborgs. Read some comment on goodreads.com review page for the book about needing to read Donna Haraway’s “Cyborg Manifesto” to comprehend the references. But that commenter is stupid. The book holds its own weight, thank you very much. And the figure, Laloo? Haunts me. Resisting reading it again because prose poetry is too close to fiction for me and throws off my rhythm. For now, a break.

[4] ELLE Magazine, March 2011 issue. Katy Perry, I hate you but the colors on the cover are saturated just right and I always think spring fashion is the tops. But why is there a CD of Brooklyn Decker’s cardio workout attached to the back? And who is Brooklyn Decker?

[5] Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities. I haven’t even gotten to you yet! I know I have old photo copy of your excerpts from Cathy’s class lying around (I browsed you) and you look lonely.

[6] Claudia Rankine’s Don’t Let Me Be Lonely. A weekend read that won’t fit into the back pocket of my purse (the book is large, length-wise, protruding). It is, again, a prose poetry text. I’ll get to you soon.