I look around me and the lecture hall is full of women -- many of them my age or older; I have a room of my own in which to think and work; a female lecturer talks about the LAPD; another puts up a slide of Virginia Woolf and reminds us her first name was Adeline. I am reminded of her beauty, and her sadness. A male writer longs to empathize about a woman's experience of rape. But in the 'New Yorker,' someone says, only 20% of those published are women writers. How very far we have come: how far we still have to go. It is my grandmothers' bequests that have allowed me to come here. I wish I could thank them.
'We carve a self out of words,' says Vivian Gornick, and I am busy carving, putting all my strength and concentration into it. Sometimes it hurts, but I come away whittled, changed. 'You tend to your innocence as long as you can...' (Bob Shacochis).
I have eaten fish and ice cream. Someone is cooking for me. 'Is this heaven?' I think. Then, no. Heaven would include my family, but they are not here. They are far away, beset by illness. I picture my boy and girl like child soldiers on the battle field, resting in the arms of my husband and mother, brave souls waiting for the retreat to sound.
carving, carving . . . do we become children again, rediscovering the innocence, or do we starve our sense of wonder, believing it to be dead and naive? what are they espousing? In any case, the carving sounds cathartic. Remember, you are brilliant, just the way you are. But I'm proud of you for trying to shine more brightly.
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