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Everything I Never Wanted to Know: 21st Century Essays

Autor Christine Hume
en Limba Engleză Paperback – 22 mar 2023
“A dauntless and harrowing indictment of patriarchal violence.” —Publishers Weekly

In Everything I Never Wanted to Know, Christine Hume confronts the stigma and vulnerability of women’s bodies in the US. She explores bodily autonomy and sexual assault alongside the National Sex Offender Registry in order to invoke not solutions but a willingness to complicate our ideas of justice and defend every human’s right to be treated like a member of the community. Feminist autobiography threads into historical narrative and cultural criticism about the Victorian-era Frozen Charlotte doll; the Nylon Riots of the 1940s; the movie Halloween; Larry Nassar, who practiced in Hume’s home state of Michigan; and other material. In these reflections on sexuality, gender, criminality, and violence, Hume asks readers to reconsider what we have collectively normalized and how we are each complicit, writing through the darkness of what we don’t want to see, what we’d rather not believe, and what some of us have long tried to forget.
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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9780814258620
ISBN-10: 081425862X
Pagini: 184
Ilustrații: 13 b&w images
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.26 kg
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria 21st Century Essays


Recenzii

“A dauntless and harrowing indictment of patriarchal violence.” —Publishers Weekly
“Mesmerizingly articulate … Everything I Never Wanted to Know is a collection of essays that combine the analytical, lyrical, and experimental to explore the continued resonances and limitations of the discussion around sexual predation. Nothing is simple in this book, and there are no heroes.” —Juliana Spahr, Los Angeles Review of Books
“Provocative and intelligent … gives voice to the many ways females (and other marginalized people) are stripped of their power by (White) male misogyny. A thoughtfully disturbing, sharp sociological study.” —Kirkus
“In her essays, Hume writes with a discerning and complicating gaze … [Her] book does not answer any questions, for the questions are not neat … It imagines what it might mean to not only look at the dynamics of gender, violence, and criminality, but to actually process what we’ve seen.” —Ilana Bean, Cleveland Review of Books
“Using personal experience, history (the 1940s Nylon Riots), and current events (Larry Nasser), Hume weaves meandering, compelling, erudite essays firmly based in feminism.… For any and all readers ready to work their brains around serious issues.” —Kathy Sexton, Booklist
“Christine Hume brings a poet’s precision and artfulness to every subject she tackles, but Everything I Never Wanted to Know feels like her greatest work yet. Every dark corner of American suburbia is on trial here through lenses personal, anthropological, sociopolitical, and even metaphysical. What emerges is a work unlike any other—this book altered me and my expectations of literature.” —Porochista Khakpour, author of Brown Album
Everything I Never Wanted to Knowasks us to sit with our discomfort and question our impulse to turn away as well as embrace our capacity to go on anyway. [It] performs a gesture more potent than catharsis: a reckoning … The ultimate hope Hume offers readers isn’t the empty promise of a solution, but the steadfast awareness that another way is always possible.” —Elizabeth Hall, Full Stop
“Christine Hume delivers a unique blend of journalism that is deeply embedded in lived experience and life-writing that interrogates the political and bodily contexts in which both writing and life occur. There is inherent sadness in learning what one never wanted to know and great triumph in the self-actualization and liberation Hume finds there.” —Kazim Ali, author of Inquisition

Notă biografică

Christine Hume is Professor of English in the Creative Writing Program at Eastern Michigan University. She is the author of several books, including Saturation Project and Shot.

Extras

A decade ago, when I first arrived in Ypsilanti, I kept my eyes open. The weekend we moved in, as we hauled boxes and decided where to put the furniture, a stranger raped our neighbor in her home. We tried to find a place for everything, including this news and ourselves. We tried to find a horizon between settling and unsettling, all the hinterland hours leaking shadow into sky. Our neighbor had been raking leaves when she noticed a man watching her from across the street. The intensity of his stare hit her like an emergency, and she ran inside. Suddenly right behind her, the stranger yanked her arm hard. He raped her in the entryway, or he tried to rape her and in doing so seriously injured her. There is nothing to distinguish stranger and neighbor, except in our taking a position. There is nothing to distinguish this event from countless others except that we were raising a baby girl and trying to think of this neighborhood as home. We looked up and down our street, hoping to exchange smiles with joggers, dog walkers, and parents shuffling out the recycling, but our timing, our sudden witness, seemed to embarrass them. Or maybe they were embarrassed for us, having chosen poorly, and heads down, they went quickly back on their way.

As fewer people stopped to ask us how we liked the neighborhood, the days clarified themselves until stunned. Even the wide streets, vacant buildings, and unkempt parks seemed constricted by a glassy apprehension. As far as I remember, that winter turned into a season of exceptional storms. This was voltage: a body routed through its own pulsating vistas. I saw hours breaking over an abundance of level land divided into two landscapes-one always visible but never accessible and the other invisible even though we crossed and recrossed it daily. We forget in both directions, but time had already taken shape in us as gender. We can cut time and beat it, but it ultimately owns us. Every woman I know here divides her life into before and after. Before the cancer, after the rape, before the child, after the assault, before the divorce, after using, before leaving, before the election, before it went viral, before the cops came, after time circles back for you.

Because two days after her death, a janitor found a student in her dorm room, naked from the waist down, skirt pulled over her head, with a pillow on her face. Suppressing this information, the university reported her death as suspected suicide. Later, after police located the man who raped then strangled her to death, the university paid its president handsomely to leave town.

Because local law enforcement does nothing for a woman whose ex-husband, after being locked up for aggravated stalking, hires an inmate to kill her and their two sons. Because there is no way to write an active sentence with her as the subject.

Because someone found a young woman dead in her bathtub, sexually assaulted and drowned. Her twin decides it couldn't be the man who raised them, though all evidence points to their stepfather. The case fades away as if time stopped at the moment when no one could fathom it.

Because a woman runs out of her apartment, weeping, and from my kitchen window, I see her looking over her shoulder down our dusty alley.

Because a girl waiting at the bus stop outside the public library gets into her uncle's car and disappears for days.

Because at 4:00 a.m. her sister's boyfriend wakes her up to rape her in her own bed.

Because, as her former boyfriend beats her up, he damages the walls and floor enough to get her kicked out of public housing.

Because these are fragments of a communal story, we cook, work, mother, drive, and plan, but we sleep inside someone else's dream. We let our feelings dissipate across a screen. We listen to news without hearing the story, the accusations and backlash, the loopholes and dismissals we take for living. What makes us suddenly come into focus or get shoved into a shed out back has nothing to do with us. Do I even know one woman who hasn't been subjected to male violence? Do you? Why doesn't that admission stop us in our tracks?

Cuprins

ONE: CONSIDER
Question Like a Face
Consider the Sex Offender
The Unregistered: Glances Toward and Away
Our Favorite Costume Is the One We Force Others to Wear
Ghost Walk (Tour of Ypsilanti)

TWO: YES, BUT
Frozen and Phantom Wings: The Body in Pieces
Icy Girls, Frigid Bitches, Frozen Dolls
Riot and Run: A Nylon Counternarrative
All the Women I Know
White Noise Nocturne (Tour of Ypsilanti)

Descriere

Draws on current events, history, and personal narrative to offer an intimate, unflinching look at the vulnerability and stigma of women’s bodies and the persistence of misogyny in America.