Autumn Song: Essays on Absence: American Lives
Autor Patrice Gopoen Limba Engleză Paperback – sep 2023
We all live lives littered with what we leave behind: places we once lived, friendships we once had, dreams we once envisioned, the people we once were. Each new day we attempt to find a way to continue living despite the absences we experience because of loss and disappointment, injustice and inequity, change and the passage of time.
Autumn Song: Essays on Absence invites readers into one Black woman’s experiences encountering absences, seeing beyond the empty spaces, and grasping at the glimmers of glory that remain. In a world marred with brokenness, these glimmers speak to the possibility of grieving losses, healing heartache, and allowing ourselves to be changed.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781496235800
ISBN-10: 1496235800
Pagini: 200
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 14 mm
Greutate: 0.26 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Seria American Lives
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1496235800
Pagini: 200
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 14 mm
Greutate: 0.26 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Seria American Lives
Locul publicării:United States
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Notă biografică
Patrice Gopo is the author of All the Colors We Will See, a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection, and All the Places We Call Home. She lives with her family in North Carolina, where she enjoys walks just after dawn and thinks a perfect day ends with ice cream. Please visit patricegopo.com to learn more.
Extras
By Way of Explanation
The maple tree in my front yard tells the silent story of the passing
seasons. The stripped branches of winter. The promising buds of
spring. The thickness of summer, spine and ligaments cloaked in an
endless green. On a humid September day, six months into a plague
that clawed at everyone’s lives in different ways, I began taking a
daily photograph of this maple tree. To ensure I remembered to
pause and sit and take in the view, I set the alarm on my phone. Each
afternoon, the insistent chime sent me out to the porch. I’d settle
into the patio furniture while the rest of my household continued
using our home as an extension of both work and school.
The flourishing tree—thousands of healthy leaves the size of my
curled fist—crowded much of the view during those initial weeks
of preserving the slow ache of change. A look to the left or right,
though, might yield neighbors walking past or a car backing out
of a driveway. A mother might push a stroller. A couple of teenagers
might dribble a basketball on their way to the court. Within
moments, the movement exited my limited frame, and I was left
with just my tree—a tree not yet ready to relinquish the abundant
spread of summer. As the temperatures started to cool, some days
I’d sit on the patio couch for hours just as I’d done back in the
long-gone days of spring. Mid-September marked half a year since
I’d last visited a friend’s home or attended church or sat inside a
restaurant or brushed past a stranger on the sidewalk.
The previous spring, I had begun to shape this essay collection.
The terrible days comprising the early months of a pandemic that
would reach further in time than anyone could then imagine. While
a few of the essays in this book had existed for years—previously
published or biding their time on my computer—that spring, I
took stock of what I’d already written and what I’d only begun to
envision. Much of the world around me seemed to slow down,
and I let my thoughts slow down as well. I asked myself, “What
do these essays together want to be?”
Perhaps there was something gratifying about exerting a level of
control over my writing when each day served as a reminder of our
lack of control over the events feeding that year. I soon saw with
fresh clarity, however, that this sense of control over my writing was
merely an illusion. In fact, the writing itself, the individual words,
the work of my subconscious, all these elements had a say in what
this book wanted to be.
The world continued out there, beyond my home and front
porch. Months passing. Ice melting. River banks rising. Helpless
infants becoming cooing babies. Children walking across the bridge
to tweenhood. And I began to make progress on this book. In ways
I struggle to name, a pandemic brought to me the sense of urgency
I often need to excise an idea from my mind and put a project in
motion. I could attribute this reality to various factors: the politics,
the racial violence, the disparities in health care laid bare by
the pandemic, the pause that inserted itself into life as my world
seemed to shrink.
Looking back, none of these reasons feels quite right when taken
in isolation. However, stacked together, they encompassed a more
complete explanation. How fitting, then, that this unfolding book
consisted of work I’d written in the past—sometimes years before—and
new essays taking shape in the midst of global havoc. These
essays stacked together encompassed a more complete reason for
the existence of the separate parts. In a time of great absence and
loss, a hub of absence revealed itself as the overarching theme.
Absence in so many forms. Absence in dreams deferred and hopes
not realized. Absence because of loss, heartache, and disappointment.
Absence arising from injustice. Absence of physical places.
Absence in experiences. Absence in memory. Absence of the life
we used to live. Absence of the life we long to live. Also, the literal
absences within the structure of some of the essays. The reliance
on the empty spaces and section breaks to speak ideas as well.
Who I am at the time of compiling the existing essays and writing
new ones guides this book. Even more, though, who I once was, at
the time of writing older work, also leaves a permanent fingerprint
on these pages. Each essay tells the story of the particular version of
me I was when I wrote those words, a snapshot of an ever-changing
human being. As a result, when I look back on some of my earlier
work, I have a visceral desire to rewrite parts of those essays. I want
them to more closely reflect the person of now, not the person of
back then. I could certainly have revised and rewritten. However,
over these months, I’ve discovered I want to leave these essays
primarily unchanged. In doing so, I allow them to serve as both
an artifact from my individual history and a contribution to the
artifacts forming our collective history. And what a sweet epiphany
for me to recognize that my choice to leave these essays by and large
alone creates another interaction with the theme of absence. While
I am writing these words now, the person who narrates portions
of this book is—in some ways—no longer here. She is absent. (To
stretch this truth even wider, I also acknowledge that by the time
this book of essays reaches a reader, aspects of the person I am now,
the person typing this introduction today, aspects of this person
will no longer be part of me).
Ultimately, to preserve those older essays as they were is to preserve
the memory of that part of myself. Yes, I have made a few
slight alterations here or there. However, I have generally not gone
back and reworked older essays to reflect the new wisdom, ideas,
and perspectives now present. Rather, I offer a fluctuating view
on absence and loss and discovering the stories within. Despite
implementing these boundaries, I can imagine how I might have
reshaped a couple of essays. Even in the case of more recent work,
there’s often another thought or reflection or bit of information
The maple tree in my front yard tells the silent story of the passing
seasons. The stripped branches of winter. The promising buds of
spring. The thickness of summer, spine and ligaments cloaked in an
endless green. On a humid September day, six months into a plague
that clawed at everyone’s lives in different ways, I began taking a
daily photograph of this maple tree. To ensure I remembered to
pause and sit and take in the view, I set the alarm on my phone. Each
afternoon, the insistent chime sent me out to the porch. I’d settle
into the patio furniture while the rest of my household continued
using our home as an extension of both work and school.
The flourishing tree—thousands of healthy leaves the size of my
curled fist—crowded much of the view during those initial weeks
of preserving the slow ache of change. A look to the left or right,
though, might yield neighbors walking past or a car backing out
of a driveway. A mother might push a stroller. A couple of teenagers
might dribble a basketball on their way to the court. Within
moments, the movement exited my limited frame, and I was left
with just my tree—a tree not yet ready to relinquish the abundant
spread of summer. As the temperatures started to cool, some days
I’d sit on the patio couch for hours just as I’d done back in the
long-gone days of spring. Mid-September marked half a year since
I’d last visited a friend’s home or attended church or sat inside a
restaurant or brushed past a stranger on the sidewalk.
The previous spring, I had begun to shape this essay collection.
The terrible days comprising the early months of a pandemic that
would reach further in time than anyone could then imagine. While
a few of the essays in this book had existed for years—previously
published or biding their time on my computer—that spring, I
took stock of what I’d already written and what I’d only begun to
envision. Much of the world around me seemed to slow down,
and I let my thoughts slow down as well. I asked myself, “What
do these essays together want to be?”
Perhaps there was something gratifying about exerting a level of
control over my writing when each day served as a reminder of our
lack of control over the events feeding that year. I soon saw with
fresh clarity, however, that this sense of control over my writing was
merely an illusion. In fact, the writing itself, the individual words,
the work of my subconscious, all these elements had a say in what
this book wanted to be.
The world continued out there, beyond my home and front
porch. Months passing. Ice melting. River banks rising. Helpless
infants becoming cooing babies. Children walking across the bridge
to tweenhood. And I began to make progress on this book. In ways
I struggle to name, a pandemic brought to me the sense of urgency
I often need to excise an idea from my mind and put a project in
motion. I could attribute this reality to various factors: the politics,
the racial violence, the disparities in health care laid bare by
the pandemic, the pause that inserted itself into life as my world
seemed to shrink.
Looking back, none of these reasons feels quite right when taken
in isolation. However, stacked together, they encompassed a more
complete explanation. How fitting, then, that this unfolding book
consisted of work I’d written in the past—sometimes years before—and
new essays taking shape in the midst of global havoc. These
essays stacked together encompassed a more complete reason for
the existence of the separate parts. In a time of great absence and
loss, a hub of absence revealed itself as the overarching theme.
Absence in so many forms. Absence in dreams deferred and hopes
not realized. Absence because of loss, heartache, and disappointment.
Absence arising from injustice. Absence of physical places.
Absence in experiences. Absence in memory. Absence of the life
we used to live. Absence of the life we long to live. Also, the literal
absences within the structure of some of the essays. The reliance
on the empty spaces and section breaks to speak ideas as well.
Who I am at the time of compiling the existing essays and writing
new ones guides this book. Even more, though, who I once was, at
the time of writing older work, also leaves a permanent fingerprint
on these pages. Each essay tells the story of the particular version of
me I was when I wrote those words, a snapshot of an ever-changing
human being. As a result, when I look back on some of my earlier
work, I have a visceral desire to rewrite parts of those essays. I want
them to more closely reflect the person of now, not the person of
back then. I could certainly have revised and rewritten. However,
over these months, I’ve discovered I want to leave these essays
primarily unchanged. In doing so, I allow them to serve as both
an artifact from my individual history and a contribution to the
artifacts forming our collective history. And what a sweet epiphany
for me to recognize that my choice to leave these essays by and large
alone creates another interaction with the theme of absence. While
I am writing these words now, the person who narrates portions
of this book is—in some ways—no longer here. She is absent. (To
stretch this truth even wider, I also acknowledge that by the time
this book of essays reaches a reader, aspects of the person I am now,
the person typing this introduction today, aspects of this person
will no longer be part of me).
Ultimately, to preserve those older essays as they were is to preserve
the memory of that part of myself. Yes, I have made a few
slight alterations here or there. However, I have generally not gone
back and reworked older essays to reflect the new wisdom, ideas,
and perspectives now present. Rather, I offer a fluctuating view
on absence and loss and discovering the stories within. Despite
implementing these boundaries, I can imagine how I might have
reshaped a couple of essays. Even in the case of more recent work,
there’s often another thought or reflection or bit of information
Cuprins
By Way of Explanation
Dwelling
Blueberry Season
Winter’s Breakup
That Autumn
Between Mountains and Water
Dispatches from a Walking Life
Living
Stones of Remembrance
Raised to Life
I Think My Grandmother Has Forgotten
When the Challenger Exploded
A Moment Leads to an Essay
And There Will Be Imprints, and There Will Be Gifts
Understanding
A Brief Statement on Grace
A Small-Scale Scavenger Hunt for Sight
Breath
More Than Tea
Single-Family Zoning Considered
The Blooming of Mournful Things
Changing
What Is Common, What Is Rare
Our Words at a Moment in Time
Two Field Guides
My Pandemic Days: March–July 2020
Anticipating Autumn
By Way of Conclusion
Gratitude
Source Acknowledgments
Author Comments
Notes
Bibliography
Dwelling
Blueberry Season
Winter’s Breakup
That Autumn
Between Mountains and Water
Dispatches from a Walking Life
Living
Stones of Remembrance
Raised to Life
I Think My Grandmother Has Forgotten
When the Challenger Exploded
A Moment Leads to an Essay
And There Will Be Imprints, and There Will Be Gifts
Understanding
A Brief Statement on Grace
A Small-Scale Scavenger Hunt for Sight
Breath
More Than Tea
Single-Family Zoning Considered
The Blooming of Mournful Things
Changing
What Is Common, What Is Rare
Our Words at a Moment in Time
Two Field Guides
My Pandemic Days: March–July 2020
Anticipating Autumn
By Way of Conclusion
Gratitude
Source Acknowledgments
Author Comments
Notes
Bibliography
Recenzii
“This gorgeous collection of essays about home and belonging casts a spell on me, with its gentle yet sharp observations and evocative sense of place. Like an alchemist, Patrice Gopo transforms ordinary moments into reflections on stillness and process. She investigates the destruction of a historically Black neighborhood in her town and explores the complicated nature of interracial relationships. Underlying these contemplative essays is an urgency to make sense of a world that often feels chaotic and frightening. Autumn Song: Essays on Absence is a necessary book, one I will return to again and again.”—Geeta Kothari, author of I Brake for Moose and Other Stories
“Patrice Gopo deftly plunges the reader into a life that weaves the personal with the political—and spotlights patterns of beauty amid the chaotic and often racist American fabric, both past and present. Gopo’s prose is vivid and gorgeous. I remembered her memories and her family long after I finished the book.”—Devi S. Laskar, author of The Atlas of Reds and Blues and Circa
“Patrice Gopo brings a contemplative eye and heart to the small but poignant details that comprise the miracle of everyday life. Though subtitled Essays on Absence, Autumn Song displays a hopeful focus on what is present and affirming: the warmth of a grandmother’s embrace, the exquisite sound of snow melting, the quiet triumph of a deer shaking itself free after being stuck in a fence. Such observations hold the frequency of the book as the pandemic lockdown shrinks the world and casts events such as the death of George Floyd into stark light. Walking through these essays with Gopo is a profound and gratifying journey.”—Sophfronia Scott, author of The Seeker and the Monk: Everyday Conversations with Thomas Merton
“With startling finesse and unmooring insight, Autumn Song: Essays on Absence will recalibrate your senses to understand there actually is no such thing as void or emptiness at all. Inside perceived absence, there is invitation for seizing, reconsidering, and creating new lexicons of poetic logic. These essays are treasures, tendered by Patrice Gopo’s rare gaze of lyrical precision. Autumn Song is an ode to the artistry of seeing oneself in a world of fast glances and forgotten histories.”—Lisa Factora-Borchers, author, activist, and editor of Dear Sister: Letters from Survivors of Sexual Violence
Descriere
In Autumn Song Patrice Gopo invites readers into her personal stories of encountering absences, examining the details as one might turn around a prism, looking for the splinters of color each angle reveals.