Chapter 28
We read from our revised work and discussed our plans for it. I read from the Amira novel, told everyone I was going to work on it in earnest, that maybe the novel about my parents could be a novella.
“Are novellas still a thing?” Oscar asked.
Milken scratched his beard. “The cost of paper is going up. But I imagine if you were trying to get it published you’d be better off tacking some stories onto it.”
I didn’t have any more stories since I was turning my only story into a novel. But I didn’t say this, just nodded.
At the end of class, Milken handed back my revised pages, his notes scribbled in the margins like an expanse of road receding for miles and miles, no pit stops in sight.
“You’re a sentimental writer, Catherine.”
I took the stack of papers and slipped them into my tote. “Thank you.”
“That’s not a good thing.”
“Oh.”
“I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to waste your time.” He removed his glasses and folded them into a brown leather case like he was preparing for this conversation to give him a headache.
I wondered if I should sit. I was halfway to the door, and everyone had left. “Okay.”
“Please don’t let this discourage you. But we’ve just gone through a major election and I’m afraid you’re going to put all this effort into these novels, and at the end of them, nobody’s going to want a poorly veiled diaristic account of your love life.
Now, the story about your parents is good, especially the parts about Joel’s childhood in the Jim Crow South.
I think that’s the story you should be pursuing.
Do you see what I’m trying to say?” He paused.
I didn’t know if he actually wanted me to respond.
“Do you want to be that young writer who’s more preoccupied with the small details of their life than the politics that shape it? ”
I fingered the straps of my bag, which were cutting the circulation from my shoulder, thinking about how if aliens descended on us and decided they wanted to learn about our culture through award-winning literature, they’d think Black people were still enslaved or in Jim Crow.
Just like prison was the endless preoccupation with a person’s most heinous act, it was like Black people were their worst historical moments in this country.
What if I wanted to be my worst contemporary moment?
“But the personal is political, isn’t it? Wasn’t that a whole thing!?” I said.
Milken offered me a sympathetic smile that I tried to accept. “You’re too young to know this,” he sighed, twisting the wedding band on his finger, “but second-wave feminism was largely a failure.”
The hallway bustled with students switching classrooms or fleeing campus for the break. Laughter ringing out, squeals, gasps (“Kaitlyn, no! What the fuck, I’m so gagged. What’re you gonna do?”)
The bulletin board by the door overflowed with flyers.
Groups had simply started pinning their posters on top of each other’s, brawling for attention.
Someone was offering ten-dollar tarot readings (Love!
Money! Advice!). Having a random person feed you the future from a stack of cards seemed like a sane impulse.
Walking through the punishing wind, all I could think about was the thousands of dollars I’d scraped together to be there.
It was so complete, the emptiness I felt, running for the bus.