How is it mean? asked J.
“Fail, pal of mine”? I said. Isn’t it mean to tell someone to fail?
I don’t think so, said J. I wouldn’t think that was a bad thing to tell a friend. Failure isn’t always bad.
I could see his point. The gleeful aspect of the lines just preceding that last line (“fie, foe”), and also the frame of mind I was in when I wrote, it had pushed it that way for me. (Again that maker’s narrative, which must be relinquished when the poem is done. All right, I relinquish it.)
About a year ago, I had a change of thinking in my excellent modern-dance class, taught by the excellent S. I had had this problem for a while: if things got past a certain threshold of difficulty and I was having trouble getting it, my mind would spiral into something like despair. It took a real mental effort to flip back up into the present moment, to move, to try. I had gotten better at this, and it happened less often.
One day in class, I had had such a moment. I wasn’t showing it, of course. I was working hard and concentrating; only the occasional frustrated shake of my head after trying a phrase betrayed my distress. I pulled out of it with difficulty, tried to enjoy the end of class and, as S. often says toward the end, to just dance, do it like you’re dancing and don’t worry about how it looks. As we were ending for the day, she said to the class, “You’ve worked really hard.” And in my mind a shift occurred. The hard work is the point, I realized. Failure is the point—when it’s done with an awareness, when you’re noticing what is happening, that information can help you get where you want to go. Closing my eyes and throwing myself at the movement, too afraid to watch and just hoping things will go right, I miss that information.
This may sound obvious. And I had read studies on attitudes toward learning, about which more below. But I had not felt this difference in my body and mind until then. The realization transformed the hard work I had been doing from a sometimes-terrifying effort to a source of pleasure.
Carol S. Dweck, a professor of psychology at Stanford University, has studied the ways we frame success. Her work, a lot of it focused on young women and mathematics, suggests that when we hear that our success is a result of inherent goodness, or talent, we are more likely to give up when we mess up. Makes sense—if you do good because you are good, and then later you do badly, it must be because you are bad. But if we learn and feel that success is the result of hard work and that skills can be improved with practice, we’re more likely to persevere when things get harder.
If you, like me, were sent to gifted-and-talented class in school, you may have ended up with the short end of this stick. When I first read about Dweck’s studies, I felt really hopeful—they may change education practices, and they have definitely changed my thinking about my own efforts.
Nonetheless, it took me until that dance class to really know it. (It also took a lot of prior hard work, and the good space that S. and my fellow students and I created in the class, to make room for that awareness, and maybe also it took reading a lot of studies about learning, so the ideas were there in my mind, waiting to take hold.)
People say “good job” a lot. Sometimes, if they are in the know, they say, “You’re working hard.” But people rarely instruct you directly to fail, as the poem does. They say, “do x,” knowing the effort might not work out. But not “fail.” I have said it. And now, after the fact, I hear the glee in it not as a cackling triumph over a frenemy but as a playful acknowledgment: of how the little chaos that a failure makes, if it’s paid attention to, can help one get more clarity, more precision, more freedom.
Fail, pal of mine.
Dweck, Carol S., “Is Math a Gift? Beliefs That Put Females at Risk” [pdf]. 2006. In S. J. Ceci & W. Williams (eds.), Why Aren’t More Women in Science? Top Researchers Debate the Evidence. Washington, DC: American Psychological Associaiton.
A Chronicle of Higher Education article exploring Dweck’s theories, including some critique of them
The endearment ending “peaches” was published a couple weeks back as part of the 100,000 Poets for Change anthology at Fieralingue. This is really a coincidence of timing—it happened to be ready, and the anthology call was there, a confluence which serves to foreground some things about the poem that I had formerly been muttering about to myself only.
For so long I had the best-words part of this endearment, but the best order for them eluded me. So a narrative emerged to help me as I revised. “Cease,” “ash heap” and “cheep” suggested a phoenix to me—burning up, then resurrection. “She paces, hep as cash” felt like the push against the feminine that I sometimes feel. The “she” in my mind was wearing tweed, and a little cap, possibly. Expecting trouble but brazen in the face of it. About to change. Maybe to embody the gender he really was. Maybe just to bust loose.
I said the story about resurrection and about gender to A. a while back and he did not buy it. It seemed too far-fetched to him. I was disappointed, but as I have mentioned before, this circumstance is okay—the phoenixical skeleton upon which I have draped the poem as I’ve worked on it is not an essential part of the finished poem. It is less skeleton than clothes-horse. I pat it on the rump, say thanks, and let it run off into the field where retired clothes-horses spend their days.
Because I don’t want that framework to determine an end-meaning for the poem. It can’t, realistically; it’s not part of the poem proper, and the markers that originally suggested it often change as I revise. “Cease” became “Cease speech”; that and the “cheeps” at the end may say something about language. A change of language. A good silence, then (a) great cheer.
On September 24, the day of 100,000 Poets for Change, I’ll hand out broadsides of the peaches endearment. If you would like one, you can let me know. I am for change.
When my brother was little, four or five, he had a collection of action figures. “Cave-mans,” he called them, and he loved them. He sat at the bottom of the stairs, on the subdued, 1990s blue and cream of the round braided rug, leaning on the first step and enacting a fight between two of these figurines, which were small enough for him to hold around the middle.
“And he pkoh, and he pkoh,” he said, banging them into each other. The noise he made was a really good pow noise, the consonants a p and something like an aspirated ch, followed by an o sound that had a little u in it, like the vowels of “foe” and “true” combined. This sound was the verb. He told himself the story they were acting out.
Not all, but some, of the Endearments are like action figures. The anagrammed words suggest a story, an idea. As I revise, I move the words around to enact it, change the story to work better with the words. This supplies shape to something that might not always offer clear choices for what will sound and look best.
As the pkoh is not inherently visible in the action figure—it requires my brother to make itself known—the stories I tell with the poems as part of making them are not necessarily visible in the finished poem. But they give shape to the thing I’m working on.
The poem ending “beloved” came to be in this way. When I think of it, I think of a couple who are making a house (N and C, for instance). The never-ending decisions to be made about what fixtures to order, what to build and what to pay someone else to build, how audacious to be in choices of paint colors; the encouragements and frustrations of doing something big with a partner. . . .
So, “be bold,” I imagine one saying to the other. “Bevel, vee.” As I made the poem, this helped me choose what words to use and in what order to say them. The act of moving the words around, either with a pencil on a printed sheet or (less preferably) on my computer screen, is like playing with action figures also. A humming, quiet, thoughtful playing, punctuated by sudden exactitude—the right place found for a word, two words saying just the right sounds.