A Response to Laura Mullen

A review of Laura Mullen's book https://www.clereviewofbooks.com/writing/laura-mullen-etc

An Update: For the past four days, since the publication of this piece, I've been trying to post a comment on the blog where the unedited interview discussed in this column appears. Twice my comment containing the link to this piece was not approved by the moderator, and it's clear it will not be. This unwillingness only further shows the author's intent, which I've outlined below. I was honestly hoping not so much for that comment's approval—to set the record straight—but more so the offer to mutually remove each other's blog posts and continue to try and find a compromise on the edits. As mentioned in the following writeup, I received no alternative suggestions to the ones I'd made—only an immature tantrum, worthy not even of a child. Alas, it seems there's too much pride on the part of the author and hence this piece must, unfortunately, remain.

Setting the Record Straight: A Response to Laura Mullen

On July 1st, 2024, I had the great pleasure to publish three of Laura Mullen’s poems as part of California Poets, an online anthology that commenced in August 2020 and which has featured over 150 poets from all across the state. The collective keeps growing and we’ve had the privilege of now also running a concurrent interview series, which I do personally, and in this respect I have also interviewed a great number of the contributors.

The publication of Laura Mullen’s poems was a success. Apart from a small error (my mistake) in formatting, which I was naturally glad to remedy, she approved the material without any changes on my part. Given that success, I reached out to Laura to request an interview in order to give her a chance to further discuss her projects and work. In the interest of transparency, here is that initial interview, which Laura so fervently wanted the public to see.

Before I go any further, I’d like to once again reaffirm that it was a great pleasure to work with Laura and this is by no means an attack on her—it’s simply the act of setting the record straight. Her blog post which summarizes the timeline of events after my suggested edits to the interview neither encapsulates the entirety of what transpired, nor does it even capture the complexity of the situation.

Let’s begin with the fact that the editor’s work is complex, full of uncertainties, and most of all subjective—something I fully admitted in our exchange. Any sensible writer will agree that the first draft of any work is far from perfect and could benefit from some adjustments.

The interview I received seemed to be in need of these edits and I tried to suggest those as objectively as possible. I reached out to Laura and apologized for having used the word “bar” and having her led towards the association of alcohol, which I sensed, by her response to the question, was a trigger. I explained that in Italy—as any local here would know—the word “bar” is used to mean café. Don't just trust the local, however; trust Google translate, if you must.

Under the guise, nevertheless, of keeping any aspects of me as an interviewer anonymous (because I live in Italy), Laura could, of course, not reveal all this, along with other the details of my response (how convenient). The problem is that those details—precisely the ones she has so generously chosen to leave out—are the key of the response, and without them, my words do come across as, to say the least, not ideal (another opportune reason to make me anonymous). I, on the other hand, have no qualms about my own words and offer them, without reservation, here:

Thank you so much for doing the interview. I appreciate the answers and the insights. Firstly, I wanted to apologize for the "sitting at a bar" question. I realize it was a trigger but that was not my intention at all. In Italy, coffee shops and cafes are called bars and having lived here for 5 years, I didn't realize the slip. Rereading "sitting alone at a bar" I now realize the stereotypes. It was certainly quite a bit of a culture when I first arrived here and people were inviting me to a "bar" at 9 in the morning. "Where have I ended up?" was my initial reaction, but I then realized that the so-called "bar" was in fact nothing more than a coffee shop. The word "cafe" does exist in Italian but it's basically never used by locals because it sounds so close to the drink "caffè" —hence "bar" is what's actually said when referring to coffee shops while the English "pub" is what people here call the bar where alcohol is drunk. Again my sincere apologies for that. And, in some ways, this relates to what I was trying to communicate with the translation question—imaginative not in the sense of better, but different. In any case, I have removed that word, "imaginative," and rephrased the question. I also did some edits on the other questions where I felt the phrasing could be improved, and I went on to adjust, slightly, the responses. Please have a look at these proofs and let me know if you agree with the edits. I'm happy to have suggestions or changes at this point. The interview is right below the poems. It's truly an honor to go through the process.

In addition, it seems to me to be a paradox that Laura would say my changes to the interview were unnecessary, when she herself just took my words—changed them unnecessarily—then posted what I had said without my permission. Something not very nice to do and certainly contradictory to what she said in her interview about having to be kind: “We need to be kind—which is harder all the time. We need to be kind, patient, well-informed and as tender and attentive as we can possibly be…also honest, which is to say very very courageous.” I don't need her anonymity, but I certainly do appreciate her editorial skills in “leaving things out.”

Secondly, let’s not forget that Laura finished her blog post with a very emphatic interest in our exchange: “I was, I am, interested by this exchange: noticing a lack of recognition of the time I put into answering his questions, as well as the failure to acknowledge an author’s right to refuse unsolicited (unexpected as well as unnecessary) editorial interventions, and I decided to publish the interview here.” Very courageous step, indeed, and certainly the statement does include a lack of recognition on her part that it was I who'd actively sought out her work, published it, took the time to write interview questions, formatted the interview for publication, edited it as best as I could, but all that time is not really important, because the mere fact this fact is not even mentioned means I didn’t really take the aforementioned time at all.

Any astute observer will notice her condescension and “editor-bashing” in the first draft, which she has so generously shared, but as an honest scholar why didn’t she share the one with my edits to really drive the point home? Is that the professorial integrity she has learned over her long and distinguished career? Using quotations to redirect to and nitpick specific word choice are tactics that any writer who wants to make themselves feel superior to other writers uses, and the interview was chock-full of those, which is why, not incidentally, she takes special care—right in the introduction of her blog post—to point out the fact that “A (younger) poet/editor contacted me in mid-July to ask if I would consent to an interview.” What difference does it make? I guess a great deal, which is why the edited interview does not appear in her blog post. Not very transparent. I have no problem (yet again) both linking to her post and publishing my edited interview. That is, I believe, how things should be done. And if the initial interview, as she points out, was really that offensive and bad, why did Laura feel such a hasty need to share it—firstly without informing me, and secondly, without trying to discuss potential edits, apart from the ones I suggested? I see only one reason for this, and that reason is the aforementioned desire to feel superior to someone she has identified as a "younger" writer—all the while bestowing upon me the gracious gift of anonymity; that must be the funniest paradox I've heard in a while.

Despite all that, at the heart of the matter is really the following fact: Laura Mullen is not very flexible—as a person I certainly don't know her; as a writer that trait seems to be clear. Though I may be beneath her, though I may not be a professor, though I may unfortunately be a man, I nevertheless have succeeded at what I do, and I’d like to say that every person I’ve interviewed, and every person whose work I’ve published as part of California Poets has engaged me in constructive dialogue to implement the changes we both thought were best. If I can be allowed an emphatic response myself, it would be to say that Laura Mullen is the sole exception—in this regard—of not having done that, and I think this alone shows where we stand. And if all the aforementioned wasn't clear before, here's the final piece of evidence: Laura, without trying to suggest alternate edits to the ones I'd made, simply said the following (once more very conveniently left out in her blog post—perhaps, due, yet again, to her excellent editorial skills, I imagine):

Dear David,

I am writing to say a hard—and sad—no to the changes you have made in the questions and, more importantly, my answers. 

Best,

Laura

I was impressed. Surely no editor can touch her responses, but now I can't even edit my own questions? Very strange and authoritarian. Naturally, I received no answer to the following message I sent: Dear Laura,

Thank you so much for getting back to me. We will have to settle on not running the interview then. It's still a pleasure and honor to have your poems. If you change your mind about the piece, I have it saved in our system. I really do feel it reads better with the edits but I also admit that an editor's perspective is subjective. I'm sorry, once more, if I have said or done anything wrong.

I wish you the best and remain at your service for anything else.

David

There was only a stunning silence and the subsequent bombshell of doing what I can only describe as a hit piece behind my back shortly thereafter. The "generosity" of your anonymity fools no one. "I have removed, of course, both the name of my interviewer and (I believe) any clues to his identity." Interesting statement because indicators like "younger poet/editor, regional anthology" don't seem to be pretty telling. More telling, perhaps, is the fact that I subsequently decided to keep your poetry as part of this "regional anthology," making it quite easy to guess who the post concerns—hence the very necessary "(I believe)" on your part.

I reckon I’ve said all there’s to say and I reiterate once more: This is by no means an attack on her character; it’s simply the act of setting the record straight. No rational person can leave such a matter undefended. Here, thus, without further ado, is the edited interview I was hoping to run. I believe that most sensible, literary people will recognize what the superior product is. Let time decide.

Interview

July 18th, 2024

California Poets Interview Series:

Laura Mullen, Poet

interviewed by David Garyan

DG: Just under a year ago you resigned [removed chairing] from the Humanities Department at Wake Forest University. Though the backlash you faced for criticizing Israel was intense, the Department itself didn’t force your decision. The tweet in question came only five days after the war started and no one really thought things were going to get quite so bad. How do you feel about the decision these days and do you think—in light of all that’s since happened—that some of the people who criticized you then might see your position differently today?

LM: December 31, 2023 was the date of my resignation. While the University did not force my decision, and did what they could to keep me physically safe, they also put out a public statement saying that I was not in line with their values. From mid-October to the end of the semester I was shifting classrooms or teaching remotely because of credible threats of violence, while commentators in the school, local, and national papers / media labeled me a “terrorist.” The intervening seven months have been spent first attending to a sick parent (who would have died—America being what it is—without a team of patient advocates, and then (now) mourning my father’s unexpected (because he had had a truly miraculous recovery) death.

But I’m interested in the claim that “no one really thought things were going to get so bad.” (We do love to be surprised by, or to feign surprise at, what we know…) People who had been looking at the situation of the Palestinians / Israel’s apartheid state of course suspected how dire the retaliation for the October 7th attack could be, though an astonishing level of denial is still in place. While my “X” post was both early and blunt, it was immediately recognized by those who, well-informed (and not drowning in propaganda), understood it as a realistic description of the way oppression leads to violence. (And it’s perhaps worth noting that the post ended with a poetically-worded acknowledgment of the possibility of genocide.) But however engaging it might be to keep this discussion “academic” (in every way) I doubt that a focus on the words of an American college professor, or her feelings, or the potential (!) shift in the position of her critics (among them the many authors of anonymous emails whose subject heading read, “Die Nazi Cunt”) is useful: the question is why we are enabling this slaughter and—more urgently—how can this be stopped?

DG: You were born in Los Angeles but have taught in various institutions across the US. In addition, you’ve done fellowships in France and Spain. What differences are there between the poetic landscapes [replaced states of poetry] in the US and the places you’ve been?

LM: I appreciate your interest in our shared situation: we have both moved around a lot, lived and worked in various parts of the world, so I know you know that the reasons people come to an art form (any art form), and what they do with it, are (on the atomic level) almost infinitely various. I would be very sorry to have to pretend that there was some singular poetic movement in any place or time. And while I could speak of tendencies (innovations and limitations) I’ve noticed—at length—I wouldn’t want to submit that in the form of a report (except as a revision of Invisible Cities). But if you look at Rodrigo Toscano’s recent work you’ll find a super sharp (and hilarious) overview of what’s going on at a fairly high level in contemporary American poetry. Meanwhile, let me reply to this question with a question: doesn’t the work you are doing as an editor contradict the assumptions behind the framing of this question?

DG: Translation is an often overlooked, underrated part of what it means to be a poet. The ability to think in another language opens worlds of possibilities within the space of the native one one speaks. When did you begin translating and did this impact your own writing process? [replaced imaginative with impact]

LM: I am immensely grateful to the many translators who have widened what we understand poetry to be by introducing us to poets we might not (because of our language limitations) have encountered otherwise: how narrow and sad contemporary poetry would be without that work! Though translating is not a huge part of my practice, I began doing it (very slowly and uncertainly) around 2004. While I suspect you have an interesting idea of translation to unpack, the flat answer is no. My interest in film and visual art is more important—that feeds me, and it’s a passion I share with Véronique Pittolo (whose book I translated for Black Square): HERO came out in 2018. I recently completed a translation of a small gorgeously tender and subversive hybrid text by Stephanie Chaillou—I’m looking for a publisher for that…

DG: To be a professor means to have an occupation—to profess at some institution; to be a teacher one merely has to teach—and this can happen anywhere, in any way; to be a poet is neither to be a professor nor to have anything to teach, but to describe, to see what others don’t see, and perhaps to communicate how that’s done. How do you see the role of the poet in contemporary society and do you think they can actually teach what they do best?

LM: I was lucky enough to study with some amazing poets (including Jorie Graham): geniuses, and I chose to be a teacher because that study transformed my art, and life. Obviously I “think [poets] can actually teach.” My (intensive, focused, impassioned, and effective) work as a teacher—I was a “Professor” for three decades—was work I loved, and my former students (many of whom are now friends) are beyond amazing, and my two jobs (poet and teacher) fed each other energetically. And while I understand your wariness about the didactic, I go to poetry because I like learning things. Have you read Carol Snow? (Another California poet!) I’ve learned so much from her work…

As for the question about “the role of the poet”—I’d be glad if we could dump the definite article: A role, for a poet? We have, as human beings, a disparate set of complicated roles to play, whether we’re writing poetry, repairing cars, doing customer service, loading shipping containers, or scrubbing floors (etc). We need to be kind—which is harder all the time. We need to be kind, patient, well-informed and as tender and attentive as we can possibly be…also honest, which is to say very very courageous.

DG: You’re in a grand hall full of writers who’ve written the world’s greatest books. Who do you talk to and who do you ignore?

LM: The “grand hall” is a manifestation of conspicuous consumption (I’m sad and bored already) and just the thought of “the world’s greatest books” (oh the beauty contest!) puts me to sleep. But I was working on inviting Christina Sharpe to Wake Forest last fall, and I’m still hoping to have the honor and joy of being in her presence somehow, someday.

DG: You’re sitting alone at a bar right after a break-up. Which writer would you want to talk to right now?

LM: The “sitting…at a bar” image plays into a vision of the poet which includes or is founded on the use of alcohol: I was raised with that (I come from a family of alcoholics, and at Iowa the workshop went to the bar when class let out), and now I have friends working hard to find out what it means to try to write sober. I know you’re in Italy, let’s change the venue to “bistro” or café? So much nicer to get a drink where the next table is full of kids having ice-cream… So, I’m out in the Tuileries, let’s say, at a table with an umbrella, with a kir and the English translation of the catalogue for Sophie Calle’s Venice Biennale show: Take Care of Yourself. I’m waiting for Cole Swensen and Biswamit Dwibedy to join me (I like hearing them talk about the possibility of not allowing their workshop students to use the ”I”), and if John Yau could make a fourth that would be nice: he has the kind of tart wisdom one wants in the wake of sorrow. I’m wanting deep art gossip: stories of people who picked themselves up out of unimaginable wreckage and stumbled forward, arms out, goofily hopeful, greedy for life...

DG: Would you rather trust a thief or a poet with a secret?

LM: T.S. Eliot said “Talent is knowing what to steal,” so I need you to explain the difference between these occupations. (But, seriously, I don’t judge trustworthiness by job titles and I distrust secrets: they divide us.)

DG: The pronoun “I” disappears from the English language. Would the places and people you go on to write about still reflect what you’ve seen and felt, or would the ego then die?

LM: The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets effectively worked on this, starting in the 1970s, destabilizing the “I” and complicating narrative, and while I wish we could report that there had been a wide ego die off in the wake of their efforts, I fear it’s not the case. In the 1990s I read / absorbed “The Death of the Author,” titled a collection After I Was Dead, and chaired a AWP panel on the vexed question of the place of the “I” in contemporary American poetry (with a fabulous line-up): I was quite hopeful about where we might get to—in our love affair with this earth and its inhabitants—by loosening and expanding our sense of that word. Looking back, I’m interested in the complex ways the emphasis on questioning the first person interacted with other kinds of activism, including the growing understanding of the importance of diversity in representation, and the terribly belated pressure to ensure that the or a canon (“the world’s greatest books”?) included voices from oppressed and marginalized populations. In Quit Like a Woman Holly Whitaker calls out AA for insisting that everyone needs to get over their ego: women, she reminds us, have been asked to do that their whole lives—it’s a potent critique, which might be applicable here? Could we zoom out and map it on to the larger (global) situation? To be called on to give up the “I” might be analogous to a call to cut carbon emissions—absolutely necessary, but fairly suspect coming from people who weren’t policed in that way, who got rich fucking up the planet. More recently Claudia Rankine has been making the second person do important work: Don’t Let Me Be Lonely and Citizen are powerful examples of what can happen when a change in pronoun leads to a deep change in what Charles Olson called the “stance” of the poet—and the state of the world.

DG: What’s worse? An editor that tells you white lies or a writer who shows you the world is no longer beautiful?

LM: The idea of the “white lie” is a social convention with a fair degree of condescension in it. Here's what you need to hear, although it isn’t true. This is manipulative and can easily turn into gas-lighting. As for being shown that the world “is no longer beautiful,” well…there are places where it is very ugly indeed, and we are to blame for the ugliness not (mostly) as writers but as self-centered perverse addicts of extractive sources of energy, feckless in our disregard for cultures, evil in our lack of care for lives and bodies, brutally short-sighted and greedy. The world bears the scars of our unequal and often unjust apportioning of beauty, and (sooner or later) all life suffers. All life. Meanwhile the Israelis are using bombs with shrapnel on a civilian population as I type this, as I try to respond to your question about the two figures you have imagined, the tiny tungsten cubes leave what looks like a scratch on the skin and (in the body) make a mush of organs and flesh while shattering bones into splinters…the damage is especially disastrous, as you might guess, in the bodies of children, where everything is so small, so close, so soft. What’s worse?

DG: Are you planning a return to academia?

LM: I worked, every single hour/day/week/month/year of my long career, to become a better teacher—and I loved where I got to at WFU: I felt like I was, at last, teaching what and how I needed to. So it’s a heartbreak, a break up, to look at the stacked boxes of books and files from my office in North Carolina (as I shove them into storage in California) and be thinking: “I don’t need this—I have no one to share it with.” But I’m not making guesses: I’m on a journey, and (as James Baldwin put it), “a journey is called that because you cannot know what you will discover on the journey, what you will do with what you find, or what you find will do to you.”

DG: What are you reading or working on at the moment?

LM: Books by others—either just finished or in process—include What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker, Big Swiss, the Narnia Chronicles, Stories Are Weapons, Revenge of the Scapegoat, Lyn Hejinian’s The Unfollowing and Halle Hill’s Good Women. I just published a collection of poems in November (EtC*), and while I am always (since I make art in order to stay alive) working, there’s no point in trying to describe something that will A) take years to complete, and B) is unlikely to resemble, when completed, any idea I might have about it now. It’ll be large. Spooky. And as accurate as I can make it.