Have you seen this?
I read Slow River for the first time in 1996, when I worked at a feminist/progressive bookstore, which has tragically closed since, in Edmonton. I credit Nicola Griffith with singlehandedly instilling in me a love for science fiction that I had at that point not discovered, as well as with torturing me with her refusal to write more of it…Oh, why, Nicola, whyyyy?! Not that Aud doesn’t deliver in her own action-packed way, but Ammonite and Slow River awakened a hunger in me for good, queer-centred and female-centred sci-fi that has rarely been sated since. I know it exists out there, but something about this book really touched me in a way that few others have. Recently I decided to re-read Slow River to see if it still held the same power for me that it had over a decade ago…
I thought maybe this (the attitude to queer future/lesbian relationship) felt connected to your Mary Sue post. So I guess if I have a question its along the lines of, when we look for certain types of relationship in lesbian novels, are we buying into our own oppression?
That’s a very nice review (and from someone who knows how to spell ‘centre’ properly). Thanks for pointing it out. I have to admit that my first thought was, There was a feminist/progressive bookshop in Edmonton? (a Seattle suburb). Who knew.
But I was puzzled by your question until I came to the comments to the post you reference, one of which reads, in part:
Y’know, I was thinking about this book’s treatment of queer relationships and how in this version of the future same-sex love had become a non-issue while you and E. were talking about identity politics yesterday. I found myself almost unwittingly missing the typical queer narrative while reading this book, like I was almost looking forward to the us-against-the-world dyke plot. Even though I can acknowledge on an intellectual level that it would be really cool if everyone could fuck/marry/love whomever they wanted, on a more emotional level I am more invested in being able to stand outside society as an Other. Oh my god, I am in love with my own oppression! Is this bad? Do you still respect me?
If I’m reading the comment correctly (and, yes, I know she’s being all ironical but the question is, I think, worth consideration), then I think the author has hit upon something that could do with serious exploration: that people in some subcultures are Othered to such a degree that we grow into a permanent fighting stance, that we don’t know how to do anything but push back. That to then try read a novel where that pressure isn’t there can lead to a version of explosive decompression: we can’t cope with the idea of being ordinary; we’ve adapted to being Other.
That’s pretty interesting. The answer to your question–does this mean that when we burst because there’s nothing keeping us down, imaginatively, we’re buying into our own oppression–is, well, fuck, I’ve no clue.
But, okay, I’ll take a shot. No, I don’t think we’re buying into our own oppression if we feel momentarily flummoxed by fiction that doesn’t push us down. I do think that such feelings are a huge red flag, a warning sign of warpage: if we can’t even allow ourselves to imagine how it might be to be free, then how will we ever become so? It seems to me that if a book makes you feel this way, you should seek out more of the same, try to adjust to the lack of pressure, at least in the privacy of your own home. You might have to armour up again to leave the house but, for a while, you should practise liberation.
In my mid-twenties I wrote a poem about living under constant pressure. It appeared in my memoir under the title ‘Submarine’ along with a brief admission that I couldn’t remember what the poem was about. But I recently found a hand-written version of the poem, complete with subtitle ‘a lesbian coping strategy’ and it’s all clear. Here’s the poem:
Submarine (a lesbian coping strategy)
I do what submarines do:
I go deep.
Water pushes
at my double hull.
I am safe
at this depth
sealed and smooth
functional.I do what submarines do:
I go deeper.
On silent running
there is no sound except
the groan of plates twisting
pushing away water
pressurised to a cold rushing fist
waiting to punch through
make me
implode.If
behind water-tight bulkheads
some small areas
maintain their air integrity
I can ascend
be pumped out
repaired.I will go back
to the deeps:
submarines
by their very nature
do not spend
time
in the shallows.
Great post Nicola! I agree that it’s easy to become rigidly ensconced in the viewpoint of the Other. For me it’s easier to get out of that viewpoint if I have real friends around.>>I like your poem so much that I want to show a poem I wrote many years ago on this subject, too.>>———>>>Cannibalism>>In the same way>that cannibals>carefully file> down their teeth>and press the inks> beneath their skin>I prepare myself>for the renewed>daily battle.>I whittle away>the soft lines of me,>learning to growl>to convince myself>of my power>to protect my>body that bleeds.>>— Jane Legion
jane, the two poems do have a similar feel, don’t they?
” (…) people in some subcultures are Othered to such a degree that we grow into a permanent fighting stance, that we don’t know how to do anything but push back. That to then try read a novel where that pressure isn’t there can lead to a version of explosive decompression: we can’t cope with the idea of being ordinary; we’ve adapted to being Other.”>>How very interesting. I think you have a good point here. >>Being Othered culturologically, socially, has different impact than being Othered from within, choosing own difference – but the two are tied together. I’m not sure if I’m making any sense – but I’ll try:>>As a direct result of being Othered and simultaneously exposed to a war trauma some years ago, I have found myself free to explore different Otherness, that of a dissident activist, a foreigner, a lesbian. None of that might have happened if I wasn’t pushed into crisis; however the downside is that ‘explosive decompression’ you’re talking about: ordinary soon became boring. Abnormal became exciting. I was on a thrill path of ‘discovering myself’ which in fact led me away from some of my true goals and into the loop of guilt, anger and gratification. And i felt fine and dandy while at it. >>In part, this could have been because my Otherness was artificially assimilated before I was ready into a cycle of political correctness that was Blairite England. I felt used. It was also clear that the current normalisation of fascism in East Europe will alienate me further from what should have been my collective memory – but is not. Where were the other Others?>>But I’m moving away from the point. What I’m reading in your post, and it’s making me smile, is the same philosophy that one would employ in self defense: relax the body and the mind will follow. Start embracing the decompression and it will gradually become easier to live without pushing. It will, perhaps, offer the potential to fight where and when it matters. The key to hope is seeing the possibilities. >>Thanks for that.
alexa, ooof, yes, absolutely, we get used to the danger/thrill adrenalin. I’ve spent the last 20 years weaning myself from that rush, and try to find it now in writing and excellent conversation. Learning–about my fictional world, about real people–is *exciting*.>>But I’ve come to truly enjoy peace and quiet, and matching internal and external tranquility. I wish there were more of it. I wish more people would feel they deserved it and so actively seek it out.
It pleases me to see that more and more Others are moving their art towards territories of freedom where oppression isn’t the main plotline. It seems rather unfair that we’d be confined to exploring only coming-out and survival strategies. While it is still necessary *holds up a finger at Prop 8* to educate the general public and ourselves, I believe we can continue to do that through richer—and even joyful—perspectives. >>Keeping in line with the poetry theme, < HREF="http://c1.libsyn.com/editions/16755/794/indiefeed_andreagibson_walmart.mp3" REL="nofollow">here’s one by Andrea Gibson<>. My favorite part is the intro she does, when she says she “stopped writing angry poetry ten years ago.” It’s called Walmart and it’s also about coping with homophobia.
I just finally noticed this post and its reference to my review of your book. I am glad you thought it was nice. <>Slow River<> really has remained one of my favourite books over the years. >>Good questions raised about Otherness and adaptation. I might add that there is a certain pride attached to having survived oppression that can also make a person become attached to that oppositional stance. But too close an attachment to it can definitely be detrimental.>>I think one of the reasons I liked <>Slow River<> so much is that although the protagonist is a lesbian, which is lovely, that part of her identity is almost incidental, as far as her struggles go. Her identity being so central to the novel, it is rather refreshing that all of these other aspects of who she is, who she has been and who she may become are explored without actually making something that is usually held as so central to one’s identity–sexuality–the prime focus. >>Oh, and in other news, I spell “centre” correctly because I am Canadian; Edmonton may or may not be the name of a suburb of Seattle (–is it? Who knew? I work in travel and hadn’t seen it anywhere else before.) but it is also the capital city of the province of Alberta, Canada. And it no longer has a feminist bookstore, although there are a number of independent places that may try to convince you that they are progressive.
Oh, I feel so provincial. Of course you meant Edmonton, Alberta. D’oh! (And, yep, I thought you were talking about Edmonds, WA–just had a brain cramp that day–which is about 20 mins drive north of here.)>>But thanks for visiting my blog. Welcome. I hope you stick around.