The Shapes of Grief

. . . but how, what would the world be with us fully in it . . .

—dionne brand, The Blue Clerk

When the climate is everything and the catastrophe everywhere and also somewhere(s) very specific, there is also climate rage.

6.

At Bocas, Danticat tells us that when she was writing Brother, I’m Dying, she looked forward to returning to it each day because in the pages of that book she got to visit with her father and her uncle. To spend time with them.

I know that grief is a vessel, a conduit for relation, but I am nevertheless startled into a new understanding when I hear that. Danticat expands what I understand grief to be and to make. She enlarges its shapes. Names it as connective tissue.

I feel, now, that I know differently the pain but also the possible joys of staying in the company of a loved and missed one through the work of remembering on the page, in the mind, in the world.

Language is one way we make and sustain relation. Words are one way we begin the work of unmaking and changing the shape of the world.

“Words are to be taken seriously,” Toni Cade Bambara insists. “Words set things in motion.”

That is the power of the iterative.

7.

In December, Protean published “Notes on Craft: Writing in the Hour of Genocide” by the Palestinian American writer Fargo Nissim Tbakhi. Tbakhi names “Craft” as “the network of sani­tizing influences exerted on writing in the English language” by the professional contexts through which it circulates and acquires prestige, including universities and publishing houses: “the influ­ences of neoliberalism, of complicit institutions, and of the linguis­tic priorities of the state and of empire.” He continues:

Above all, Craft is the result of market forces; it is therefore the result of imperial forces, as the two are so inextricably bound up together as to be one and the same. The Craft which is taught in Western institutions, taken up and reproduced by Western publishers, literary institutions, and awards bodies, is a set of regulatory ideas which curtail forms of speech that might enact real danger to the constellation of economic and social values which are, as I write this, facilitating genocide in Palestine and elsewhere across the globe. If, as Audre Lorde taught us, the master’s tools cannot dismantle the master’s house, then Craft is the process by which our own real liberatory tools are dulled, confiscated, and replaced.

Craft tells us that the market matters. Craft tells us to modu­late our words. Craft tells us that if “we” do it well enough, “they” will listen. Craft tells us to be silent about genocide. To be silent about genocides, about antiblackness and white supremacy. “Craft,” Tbakhi continues, “is a machine for regulation, estrangement, sanitization.”

But Tbakhi also notes, “Anticolonial writers in the U.S. and across the globe have long modeled alternative crafts which reject these priorities and continue to do so in this present moment.” Instead of Craft, I think about work. The work that we, writers, are doing now as we try to attend to the violent world and also to what might be in excess of it.

What are the words and the forms with which to do and say and make what we need to live in, now? Not only in some future time but now. What is our work to be? isn’t a grand question. It is a simple question. The question at the base of our writing.

8.

Writers who try to do this work are told that our words don’t mat­ter. When we demand a ceasefire and an end to occupation, we are told that those words are meaningless, that they do not prompt action, and that they cause tremendous injury (as in, to demand a ceasefire or to demand that the genocide in Gaza end is to cause injury and not to demand the cessation of injury). To name a per­son, institution, state, or a set of acts as racist or anti-Palestinian or antiblack is to cause injury. It is not the racism that injures, it is not the bullets and bombs that injure, it is the words that seek to name the injury—that name a murderous structure like apartheid or settler colonialism—that cause injury.

Meaning is in crisis. And we are embroiled, everywhere, in contests over meaning—which are also contests of power, contests over living. And dying.

When Anne Boyer resigned as poetry editor of The New York Times Magazine in November 2023, she wrote on her Substack,

Because our status quo is self-expression, sometimes the most effective mode of protest for artists is to refuse.

I can’t write about poetry amidst the “reasonable” tones of those who aim to acclimatize us to this unreasonable suffering. No more ghoulish euphemisms. No more verbally sanitized hellscapes. No more warmongering lies.

If this resignation leaves a hole in the news the size of poetry, then that is the true shape of the present.

9.

This past academic year, as I prepared for class, I kept wondering how we were supposed to do our work and what that work should be. I wondered how the students in the class were supposed to do their work, even when the work that we were doing was relevant to what we are living through and trying to witness and to interrupt. We adjusted. We talked. We held space. We read. They were pres­ent. They showed up, and together we did our work.

In a three-hour seminar that I led at another university, I asked a group of students and faculty to read Steffani Jemison’s “On the Stroke, the Glyph, and the Mark.” It’s a piece of writing that I both like and admire—her objects of inquiry, her sense making, and how she builds the essay through thinking and wondering.

Jemison’s first sentence is: “I have made a mark, and I do not know whether I am drawing or writing.”

Jemison is not talking about Craft.

She is talking about work. She is writing about writing/drawing/thinking/escape.

What is the work of composition, of mark making? What should our marks mark? Hold? Move toward?

The artist Joumana Medlej likewise moves between writing and drawing, perhaps also thinking of escape. She is making a mark in lieu of a name, in lieu of many proper names. She is making a mark for every murdered Palestinian. On March 17, 2024, she posted on X: “With 31,500 killed you-know-where so far, I was struggling with number blindness. When numbers become so large they lose all meaning, how do you remain awake to the scale of the slaughter & the personhood of the victims?”

From the artist Torkwase Dyson, I have learned (again and again) that the practice of mark making is a practice of navigation.

10.

We should rid our writing of the domestication of atrocity, rid our writing of the tense that insists on the innocence of its perpetrators, the exonerative tense of phrases like “lives were lost” and “a stray bullet found its way into the van” and “children died.” We should rid our writing of this dreadful innocence. We should refuse the logic that produces a phrase like “human animals” and a “four-year-old young lady.”

11.

Driving through the neighborhood where we are staying in Salvador in the state of Bahia in Brazil, we keep encountering a particularly long and steep hill. Our friend tells us that it is called Ladeira da Preguiça—the Steep Hill of Laziness.

Slave owners, those who claimed to own other people, named it that. This hill that they did not walk and that they made enslaved people walk up and down carrying heavy goods that they them­selves would not carry.

The slaveowners in Brazil, like everywhere black (and black­ened) people were enslaved (in Brazil that was until 1888), main­tained that the people they literally worked to death were lazy.

And that steep hill that they were forced to ascend and descend, hour after hour and day after day, was named Lazy Hill. They were named lazy. This is devastating language, brutal language.

This is language that undoes.

12.

The descriptions of a prison in El Salvador. The description of a small boat that drifted across the Atlantic to Tobago. The plans to recolonize Haiti. The warnings that twenty-five million people in Sudan are at imminent risk of famine. The descriptions of massa­cres that Israel has carried out against Palestinians. The wide-open, shocked eyes of the Palestinian man abducted by the IDF. The descriptions of the Greek coast guard throwing people into the sea.

13.

What must we, as writers, animate and set into motion in place of such language?

In “The Sentence as a Space for Living: Prose Architecture,” Renee Gladman writes,

For all my writing life I have been fascinated with notions of origin and passage, though rarely in terms of ancestry—since I don’t know where I’m from. I don’t know the languages or landscapes that preceded the incursion of English and what is now the United States into my lineage. Yet, the violence of that erasure—all the inheritances interrupted—is as foundational to my relationship to language and subjectivity as is grammar. . . . I open my mouth in my own life and I want to distort, rearrange, mispronounce the available vocabulary.

Mispronouncing can rearrange language and open it up; distor­tion might be a way-making tool that undoes available vocabularies.

And a sentence can also be a space for living through an occupa­tion or preoccupation with the line, with grammars and imagination.

14.

“Encampments are not only zones of demands & refusals, but also processes of communing, making decisions together, enacting sol­idarity as a verb, embodying autonomous & collective liberation. They are themselves zones of imagination, of connection, of pre­figuring life & new worlds.”

This is Harsha Walia writing about the student encampments on campuses in the United States and Canada and France and the United Kingdom and elsewhere.

This is a vocabulary and a practice of our possible living.

15.

As I write this, the university where I teach has sent in riot police to disband an encampment that has been established for less than twenty-four hours. All the universities calling in riot police think that they know the future. They don’t really know what they are making. They know what they want, but they do not know what they are incubating.

16.

Alexis Pauline Gumbs’s “In the Middle of Fighting for Freedom We Found Ourselves Free” is a preface to June Jordan’s remem­brance of Audre Lorde, her sister in struggle. Gumbs is channeling Jordan’s clarity about her and our perilous times. She writes, “The students are teaching us that, though we cannot undo the incalcu­lable loss of genocidal violence, it is not too late. It is exactly the time to be braver together in service of a livable future. It is time for what June Jordan calls . . . ‘words that death cannot spell or delete.’”

17.

After the Israeli bombing of Rafah on May 26, 2024, the hundredth or thousandth massacre in Palestine in seventy-six years, Jennine K writes on X, “The flour massacre, the tents massacre, the hospital massacre, the refugee camp massacre, the ‘safe corridor’ massacre, the endless massacres, in homes, on the streets, in tents, on foot—eight months of massacre after massacre after massacre.” The poet Ladan Osman writes, “Who or what will cool the eyes of those who witnessed and recorded this carnage, saying: People of the world, look at this?”

Terrible acts. Unbearable. Who is called on to be a continual witness to the unbearable, to survive and carry it?

Each time I write that the genocide being carried out by Israel against Palestinians is unbearable, I name a position or positions. I name distance, because the Palestinians who are living this, those who are somehow surviving this, are bearing the unbearable, are being made to bear the unbearable over and over and over again. Their witnessing is a refusal to be silent in the face of genocide. More than that—they are necessary utterances in the midst of devastation.

In April 2024, I read that since October 2023, Israel has dropped over seventy thousand tons of bombs on Gaza.

Who can survive this? What survives of those who survive this, eight months and counting of constant terror? Those who move to what they are told is a “safe zone,” only for that zone to be bombed?

Thousands of people, likely tens of thousands of people bur­ied, alive and dead, under the rubble. I read in The Guardian that people report walking though the destroyed streets and having to bear hearing people calling for help and being unable to help them.

Selma Dabbagh writes in the London Review of Books, “According to the UN, it could take up to three years to remove the bodies from the 37 million tonnes of rubble in Gaza, which is also contam­inated by unexploded ordnance, up to ten per cent of which, they estimate, ‘doesn’t function as designed.’”

Unbearable.

Unbearable, and entire populations are being forced to bear it anyway.

18.

At the end of May 2024, as we are on our way to the airport in Salvador, L. tells us that there are more than three million people living in the favelas of Salvador. He says that a majority of the black people in Salvador live in one of the many favelas and that it is less expensive to live there than in other neighborhoods or in social housing.

L. also tells us that 260,000 people disappeared during the most intense period of Covid. L. does not know where they went.

How do more than a quarter of a million people go missing?

These are economies of scale. Economies of value.

During the same trip to Salvador and on our drive from Salvador to Cachoeira, another friend, G., an architect and professor, tells us that the government moved many people to social housing, but they did so with little thought to how people were assigned to a place. They gave little consideration to the distances that people were being moved or to the infrastructure or lack of it. G. tells us that these moves broke up communities and families. She also tells us that, except for the people on the ground floor, no one in social housing had access to back gardens.

No possibility of extending space horizontally or vertically. That possibility to move up or out is one of the infrastructures of life in Brazil.

G. tells us about the laje, “a flat concrete roof.” These kinds of roofs are considered by some to be incomplete. In the vocabulary of city officials, these structures are unfinished, an eyesore. But in another vocabulary of those who live in them, the laje is the space of the possible.

They are not incomplete; they are a future promise. It is an architecture that reaches upwards, that gestures toward plans. It is an architecture against the foreclosure of possibility.

19.

On June 5, 2024, Omar Hamad, a pharmacist, writer, and film critic from Gaza, writes the following on X: “Describing last night as a harsh night is inaccurate. Out of sheer fear, our hearts reached our throats, as if we wanted to vomit them out. The bombing didn’t cease for a single moment. I don’t know how the sun rose upon us again.”

Not harsh. Something else. Some other word. Some other force of terror.

Each day I come to know even more clearly and urgently that we must commit to the fight for meaning. Not to concede the words, concepts, terms that we need to think and imagine and make livable lives.

This is some of what is required of our writing, some of what our writing can do, some of what our writing is for, in the face of all of this.