Recollections of My Nonexistence

It is so normal for places to be named after men (mostly white men) and not women that I didn’t notice it until, in 2015, I made a map renaming places after women and realized I’d grown up in a country where almost everything named after a person—mountains, rivers, towns, bridges, buildings, states, parks—was named after a man, and nearly all the statues were of men. Women were allegorical figures—liberty and justice—but not actual people. A landscape full of places named after women and statues of women might have encouraged me and other girls in profound ways. The names of women were absent, and these absences were absent from our imaginations. It was no wonder we were supposed to be so slender as to shade into nonexistence

Childhood fades gradually in some ways, never ends in others; adulthood arrives in small, irregular installments if it arrives; and every person is on her own schedule, or rather there is none for the many transitions. When you leave home, if you had one, when you start out on your own, you’re someone who was a child for most of her life, though even what it means to be a child is ill-defined.

The fight wasn’t just to survive bodily, though that could be intense enough, but to survive as a person possessed of rights, including the right to participation and dignity and a voice.

I was trying to find a poetics of my own, with no maps, no guides, not much to go on.

I was trying not to be the subject of someone else’s poetry and not to get killed

“The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world,”

I was only a ghost fading even from my own sight.

My own image drifted away from me into darkness, as though I was only a ghost fading even from my own sight.