Tell us about your anthology, That’s a Pretty Thing to Call It.

So That’s a Pretty Thing to Call It has been an ongoing project for over eight years. It’s a collection of poems, prose, and other works by artists who have taught in prison. I launched the project with very little knowledge or understanding of the literary world and what it meant to embark on compiling this kind of collection, hence why it has taken so long!

The idea for the collection came about after I had been facilitating writing workshops in prisons for several years. As an undergraduate student at University of Michigan, I participated in an organization called the Prison Creative Arts Project (PCAP), where Michigan students and other folks from the community would drive to local prisons and facilitate ongoing theater, creative writing, or visual arts workshops with incarcerated folks. I didn’t study poetry or literature in college, so in a lot of ways these prison workshops were my first, and for a long time only, poetry community.

I noticed that the content of my writing started to center around these experiences; I was writing poems about prison, incarceration, and my experiences with the people I was encountering, but I felt very conflicted about what to do with this writing. I wanted to share it, but I also felt very nervous that doing so would somehow mean I was continuing to speak for incarcerated artists, which is never my intention. Over time, I realized I was probably not alone in this desire to share my writing from prison, so I decided to start reaching out to other prison teaching artists to see if they had similar work.

The more I sought, the more I realized this was a necessary collection, as I kept hearing my fears and desires echoed in others’ accounts, so I rather naïvely decided to put out a national call for submissions. Eight years later and after many stumbles, errors, and much learning, we have this gorgeous book that New Village Press so carefully and lovingly helped create. I’ve also been so lucky too, through this process, to meet some of my poetry heroes, including Ellen Bass, Joy Priest, E. Ethelbert Miller, and Paisley Rekdal, while featuring many writers who hadn’t previously been published as well as other artists who are very established in their field but do not think of writing as their primary medium, like Pat Graney and Janie Paul.

I wish I had had this book when I was entering the field, and Toni Morrison’s adage about writing the book that you want or need to read has been a driving force behind this project.

Anthologies are as much about the work included as they are about the way those pieces are edited, organized, and ordered—how did you see your role in the creative process? What were some things you considered as you put this collection together?

Before I embarked on creating this anthology, I had been a co-editor for the Michigan Anthology of Prisoner Creative Writing, which was a project out of the aforementioned Prison Creative Arts Project. My first two years of co-editing were pretty ad hoc; most of us were undergraduate students or had just barely graduated from college, and were kind of scrapping together the best we could. I naïvely thought that because I had this experience, I knew how to compile an anthology on my own.

How young I was! When I started, I put out a national call through several avenues related to the prison teaching arts community, and had some connections through my involvement at PCAP. I got incredibly lucky when Ellen Bass somehow saw my call for submissions and amplified it amongst her large community, which is how I got many amazing submissions.

That said, I was not an experienced editor, did not have any background in ethical considerations about editing, and was basically flying by the seat of my pants. The project had many stops and starts for many reasons; I was never affiliated with an institution sponsoring this project, so it was always a labor of love in my free time, and the amount of free time I had naturally waxed and waned depending on the month or year. Additionally, I found myself getting scared off and setting the project aside for months at a time because I felt overwhelmed. Within the first year of launching the project, New Village Press, the eventual publisher, actually contacted me as they had caught wind of the call for submissions and invited me to submit a book proposal. I remember feeling incredibly overwhelmed and scared; I was twenty-five, hadn’t studied literature, hadn’t published anything, and all of a sudden was looking at a book proposal!

There was also a lot of political learning along the way, so while I was perhaps very gung ho the first couple of years, I ended up learning more and needing to either redirect the anthology or continue to reach out to specific individuals to make a better book.

A stark example of this process was that around 2016 I spoke with Vikki Law, an incredible activist, writer, and mentor. She pointed me to what was then a new call from the Center for NuLeadership to cease the use of the word inmate; the premise, which I deeply believe in, was that the word commences a process of “thingification” such that the person to whom the word refers becomes an object who is then easier to dehumanize and subjugate. I no longer use the word inmate in my own speech, but many of the pieces I had accepted for the anthology did use that word.

I very hastily sent out an email to all the contributors for whom this was relevant with a blanket statement that we were going to omit the word from the book. I offered to help them come up with alternatives, or offered to have them make their own edits, whichever they preferred. Some folks were very grateful for this information, but I received pushback from some people who had very deliberately used the word as part of their art. They knew what they were doing, and my blanket resolution was actually, I learned, an unethical one. The contributors know what they are doing and saying, and are making artistic and linguistic choices based on deep knowledge. This pushback was very valuable to me and the book, and I thank those contributors for supporting my learning. I would say the big takeaway here was about making unilateral decisions (AKA not to do it!) and trusting the amazing artists who were trusting me with their work.

In the past, you’ve read submissions for Pigeon Pages. How was the process of selecting pieces for this anthology similar to or different than selecting work for a literary magazine?

This is an interesting question. For a little background, I formerly read for Pigeon Pages and Palette Poetry, and have done little reading stints for the Scholastic Writing Awards and Washington Square Review. One of the major differences for this anthology is that the theme is so focused, so I didn’t have to consider questions about how different pieces fit together to make a whole the same way that one might for a literary magazine. Of course, I considered how all the pieces spoke to one another and what kind of message they sent, but it wasn’t the same as having sort of an infinite number of topics and styles and trying to create something cohesive from that.

Also, many people submitting to literary magazines like Pigeon Pages are explicitly looking to publish their work for exposure. Many are emerging writers who are maybe in graduate school, or have an MFA already, are working on a book, are trying to get their names out. Which is great—I think that’s one of the main strengths of literary journals, especially free ones! This anthology, though, was more content-focused, although that sounds a bit reductive. There are pieces in this book that might not have done well in an MFA workshop for example, or might be passed over in a slush pile for a literary review, but that are extremely poignant and integral to the book for their straightforwardness and starkness.

Additionally, I think this is starting to change, but in many literary magazines, readers and editors still often use a pretty academic/hierarchical way of evaluating language, i.e., looking at craft as defined by Western (white) norms and models. I cannot claim to be outside of or immune to these pressures, but over the course of editing this anthology, many of my contributors patiently educated me about the way that their work was making deliberate choices to resist that hierarchy of language, meaning they were writing in ways that they knew might not suit a university but that better reflected how they spoke with friends and others in their community. This is not to say that such consideration does not happen in literary magazines, but with this anthology, my understanding of craft and artistry was challenged and, I think, made better.

One of the concepts described in this anthology is the role of art in giving a voice to those silenced by “an oppressive and silencing system.” One of the wonderful elements of an anthology is how it deals with negative space. The gaps between the pieces in this work act as a kind of connective tissue and a lot is said in that space. How did you think about white space in this anthology and its relationship to those silenced by incarceration?

Honestly, you are giving credit to me where credit is not due! The book design is a product of the amazing folks at New Village Press. That said, you might notice that spacing and formatting is quite varied amongst the pieces, particularly the poetry pieces, and I think that does reflect a kind of collective consciousness amongst the contributors of the importance of form and visuals on the page when writing about/with topics of incarceration.

Now that I’m thinking about it, a completely blank section would have been a really cool way to honor and represent the voices that couldn’t be in the collection.

In “Catch & Release,” Michael G. Hickey talks about the intricate balance of empathy and letting go as being essential to working with the young people at Pongo. Zooming out—how have you thought about distancing? How do you think about that kind of leaning in and leaning out when it comes to creating art from these experiences?

This is a big question, and one that I’m only answering as and speaking for myself, as you’ll probably get a different answer from any person you ask. Distancing is a funny word, because distance is one of the primary mechanisms of a carceral system: separating and invisibilizing people from their communities. I often felt a very confusing, whiplash-y sense of incredible connection with the writers in the workshops coupled with the impossibility of intimacy, given our opposed statuses as free versus jailed. Some of the contributors spoke about closing the distance—Amani Sawari, for example, writes about one day noticing she had pink nail polish on while the younger girls in her workshop did not have access to nail polish, and her subsequent decision to keep her nails bare in order to close the distance, in order to stand in solidarity with these children.

At the same time, the community of prison arts workers does often confront this question of sustainability and burnout, and how to navigate the often impossibly strong pull toward the incarcerated folks we encounter while recognizing that we also have responsibilities outside of that work, including our own families and jobs. I think if you had asked me this question when I was twenty-one, I would have been outraged at any suggestion of pacing or resisting burnout; however, I know very few people in this community who have not taken extended breaks from physically going into the prisons, whether due to their own needs or changing schedules or other external factors. And I don’t think this is a bad thing.

I’ve been involved in enough nonprofits, both prison-related and not, to understand that a culture of burnout is harmful to all involved; it renders non-incarcerated folks unable to continue teaching and facilitating and providing our incarcerated comrades with outlets, and it leads to short bursts of energy followed by often deep and long bouts of depression or inability to work. I’ve started to advocate for more of a long view, for a way of living and working that supports long-term involvement without harming those involved.

I think this topic is also related to a larger conversation around capitalism and discussions and values of white supremacy in art. Some of the tenets of white supremacy include urgency as well as a belief that oneself is the only person who can quote unquote help a certain situation. To be clear, there is a great mix of racial and ethnic backgrounds amongst the contributors in this book, but because white supremacy is so ubiquitous, and because prison arts programs are often housed within academic institutions and nonprofit agencies which are by definition products of a white supremacist culture, these insidious values do often seep into conceptions and practices of/in this work.

All this is to say, I think less about distancing and more about what sustainability looks like in practice.

One of the fundamental parts of the creative process is deciding what form the work is meant to take. Tell us more about the Hybrid/Mixed Genre section of this anthology. How do you think the form of these works serves to emphasize the narratives in this section?

I was just speaking with Jiordan Castle about this, but I think the genre separations were largely for reader ease and anthology flow. As a reader, I wondered whether it would be disorienting to flip between poems, cartoons, plays, etc. I don’t necessarily think that would have been the wrong way to go, but it wasn’t what I chose.

When I submitted my call for submissions, I did not put any restrictions on length, style, or genre. I really was just curious to see what I would get, if anything. So while I did get mostly pieces that would fall into traditional categories of prose or poetry, some very squarely did not, so I faced an organizational challenge of whether to just completely shake up the book and list things alphabetically, or employ some other self-created method.

I’m really grateful to those who made more hybrid works. I think, without putting a value system or hierarchy on form, hybrid works are often great modes for highly complex topics, and/or ways of writing that allow for, say, personal narrative with research and other modes of thinking. Raquel’s play, for example, gives us an opportunity to visualize a participatory and collective means of expression. And Caits Meissner’s graphics communicate beyond language that which wouldn’t adequately be expressed with words.

On a very basic level, too, I think of teaching methods and the teacher’s responsibility to cater to all types of learners, including visual, audio, and kinesthetic. In that way, I wanted the reader to experience different modes, and I also wanted to welcome the works of writers who perhaps think and operate in these less absolute categories.

In the last section, several of the poems, including “Already There” and “Ode to Cook County Jail,” use repetition to propel the works forward. How do you see repetition lending itself to the content and themes of these poems?

Repetition is absolutely a common form in works about prison, for obvious reasons—for what is prison if not the mind-numbing Groundhog Day effect of militaristic structure and rules, each day largely the same, time rolling into itself? Even those of us who have not been incarcerated, which is most people in the book, experienced this Groundhog Day effect in our trips to prisons: every step through these institutions is highly choreographed, highly monitored, and highly unnatural. From the procedural pat-downs in the security room to the ways that the incarcerated folks would file into the activity room, it’s hard to measure time elapsing when everything looks and feels the same.

That said, repetition does serve different roles in different pieces. Another poem where repetition comes up is in Paisley Rekdal’s Reynolds Work Release. Here, while I think the repetition is acting as described above, I think it’s also acting like a mind trying to calm or reassure itself. I haven’t discussed this with Paisley so I do not want to put words in her mouth, but the speaker of the poem seems to be saying I wasn’t scared over and over again in a way that feels more like a prayer than a true statement. Repetition is often used as a way to soothe ourselves, or to distract a frantic mind.

I was really moved by Nancy Miller Gomez’s two poems. The small details, the images, all serve to humanize the men she is working with. Why do you think the particular—the individual moments, sometimes—becomes the most universal?

I think what you’re noting, the way the quotidian is so celebrated and even seen as godly, is actually less about prison than it is about art and writing in general, although prison makes it all the more stark. Something writers learn early on is to provide details; we tell young students to use all five senses, we ask for writers to push further in their narrative so that a reader can clearly imagine what is being described.

In poetry, this is even more heightened, as poetry demands, at least usually, a kind of economy of language such that only the most important and precise words are chosen. There are always exceptions, such as in poems by Hafiz or other writers where the universal really is uttered in universal terms, but in general the more minute the detail, the more the reader is forced to take time, or rather give time, to the gift of the poem. Hyper-focusing on details forces the reader to slow down, and in this way almost mimics a kind of meditation.

In prison specifically, a lot of us who facilitate workshops also noticed that the participants were extremely astute to detail, not just in writing but in everything. Like, people in my workshop would notice if a book was slightly askew on a table versus the previous week. This goes back to the question about repetition—the more one is surrounded by sameness, the more one may be highly attuned to notice difference. Not to glamorize or exoticize incarcerated folks, but this extreme awareness of surroundings and minute differences becomes almost like a necessary superpower.

What are three books you’d recommend to someone who wants to write? 

Oh! Literally write anything? Wow, that’s a big question!

Well, the first is prison-related, but I’d recommend The Sentences that Create Us, edited by anthology contributor, poet, and artist extraordinaire Caits Meissner, who was then at PEN’s Prison Writing Program. Though it is about “creating literary life in prison,” the wisdom and ingenuity of the contributors—many of whom are incarcerated—is almost, and I hate this word, universal. They speak of writing through deep challenge, writing when every force is exerted to stifle your voice, writing when you feel like you don’t even know what writing is.

The next book is my favorite book of all time—How Should a Person Be? by Sheila Heti. It had a big moment back in the early 2010s, but I’m just obsessed with this book and try to reread it at least once a year. It is an autofiction account of the author trying to write this play she’s been commissioned to write, but she has major writer’s block, and the book mostly follows her as she does everything she can to avoid writing it (sex, drugs, sweeping hair at a salon . . .). Interspersed are meditations on the value of art, the ambivalence of art making, what constitutes “good” work and “good” behavior, with a lot of gender and race and religious analysis thrown in. Every time I’m in a slump, if I pick it up, it just gets my brain going in all sorts of unpredictable directions.

The last book I’ll recommend is all about love by bell hooks. It is not a writing book per se, but it is a heart and mind and soul book. It is a book that reminds me of what is important. It is grounding, it is centering, it is challenging, and it brings me back to the values I hope to foster and practice in both my life and my writing (which I suppose are not separate). The language is so crisp, precise, and unapologetic . . . the honesty and straightforwardness models a mode of communication that I aspire to in my own work and life.