Theory
Miller Oberman

       
Gender is, thus, a construction that regularly conceals its genesis;
       the tacit collective agreement to perform, produce, and sustain
       discrete and polar genders as cultural fictions is obscured by the
       credibility of those productions—and the
       punishments that attend not agreeing to believe in them.

       —Judith Butler,Gender Trouble

Yes they chased me          Yes it was spring                 It was spring
                  It was spring      It was               spring all day and night
All the trees leaning        into light their fuzzy buds and calyxes
                  The grass greener than whatever's greenest
The daffodils yellow and yellow and yellow and cream

This telling will be different          I swear                  from when I was eighteen
                  and described the perfect            springiness of the grass
under my high-tops        Fuck the lyric      mountains and the air
                  I had just turned ten      We were playing capture the flag
when the boys in my class            and their older brothers           turned


In the mock Olympic Games       I'd won javelin                     shot put
                  and wrestling     Came second in long jump         but that
didn't matter now             they chased me                  I fled past the echoing
                  concrete of the pavilion            past barrel trash cans 
fizzing with flies     past the short field     over the edge of Ragged Mountain


That's the real name of it                I say the real names of things
                  when I know them         Maybe somebody said a name then
Maybe to Ethan                  lithe as a deer   Ethan my friend who'd given me
                  a folding knife for my birthday                  smiling quietly
or otherwise their blood    moved them like magnets        like swallows


or certain bugs that hang together like nets     fly like they're
                  woven together     Maybe someone said dyke or goy
their names for me    A boy who had just started shaving gave a whistle
                  gestured with his arm      My body pressed against
the mountain's steepness              They are so high above me


I can see the soles of their shoes           when they lift them up to kick
                  dirt and leaves in my face      zigzag            swoosh honeycomb
head of a fanged roaring wildcat      They stone me               stone stone stone
stonestone      When I wrote of this before        I focused on the rocks
                  gave their scientific names     suggested I was becoming one


Naming things feels good       cataloguing has great colonial power
                  and so distracting     A way of looking away
They threw and threw    All the roly-polys       from under the rocks
                  revealed and     scurrying
No one came     No one stopped them     They stopped maybe


because they got bored    At first they got farther away as they threw
                  Someone      heel-dragged a line in the grass and they stood
behind it               Humans in a field    Men in the man-made ground
                  keeping at bay below the tree line's dark            dangling
edge something else         Something not made like them


or unmade        abject and profane        I heard a sound from my body
                  like a growl               heat poured off my head       I felt my
personness evaporating       as the boys laughed upright
                  in the mown field            I bellied up with millipedes     snails
last year's leaves rotting and skeletal


The body  lost human speech then     But somewhere  someone
                  was writing      I know that now          at a desk in a cool room
shining haired      You can't see them now     you in the bloody torn
                  jeans      covered with mountain-stuff but you will       They are
explaining it        That these boys             Ethan    Noah     Shawn


big blonde Jeff who once                             picked you up and
                  stuffed your whole body in a trash barrel
in a week's worth of discarded lunches                   maggots                   broken
                  glass   and who claimed           to have seen a movie
called Carnal Knowledge               but wouldn't describe it


They are explaining it all            in a book                  They are saying
                  you are a person                          who came first
not a copy           They are saying           these boys          are fictions
                  stoning other fictions        These are the punishments
that attend           These are ghosts throwing at nothing
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"Theory" describes an incident of bullying I experienced as a ten-year-old. I tried to write this poem for decades, but the previous poems were terrible! Then I realized Judith Butler was writing their book Gender Trouble at the same time as this happened, and it opened up so much connection for me. Suddenly, I wasn’t isolated in this experience anymore, even in the past.

Miller Oberman on "Theory"
"Following the Poet’s Path: A Daughter’s Journey to Japan In Search of Closure"

"When my mother was dying in New York, in December 2020, the city was in its eighth month of lockdown with no vaccines. The hospital waiting room where I’d taken my own children for stitches and reassurance was now a row of taped-off chairs. I walked out of the sliding doors and circled the long hospital block like a sheepdog. My mother was a poet, Jean Valentine. Or maybe she was the poet, Jean Valentine, who also happened to be my mother."

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What Sparks Poetry:
Matt Broaddus on Building Community


"A major interest of mine, in terms of bringing in historical reference, is just trying to acknowledge that where I am is not the be-all-end-all and won’t be the be-all-end-all. What I mean by that is that where I’m writing from is just a blip, you know, and my writing and my literary self on the page is in many ways an outgrowth of historical forces that are beyond my control. I think that one way I can feel like my art is engaging with these forces is to write about them and to move the past into the present."
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