Note: Verve {in} Verse is my poet-focused feature here at The Kenyon Review in which I converse with poets about their work and interests both on and off the page. I had the pleasure of speaking with Jasminne Mendez about her new book, Night-Blooming Jasmin(n)e. Here she shares with us her insights on writing a multi-genre collection, her Afro-Latina Dominican identity and how “if I can survive my own body trying to kill me, then who knows what I’m capable of next.” It’s my absolute pleasure to bring her brilliance and candor to the blog. -Rosebud Ben-Oni
Rosebud Ben-Oni: Night-Blooming Jasmin(n)e presents the reader with different kinds of texts, poetry and prose and prose poems, “avalanches” and that “moment of silence” in which latter which honors the dearly departed Baby M. I found myself drawn into the “switch” of texts themselves as the story of loss and love, illness and healing, frustrations and hope, food and hungers took me through all the journeys of the many Jasmin(n)es the readers meet. Can you tell us about how you structured the book to include a multi-genre approach?
Jasminne Mendez: I first got diagnosed with scleroderma in 2007; I started writing poems to try and cope with the anxieties and frustrations of living with a debilitating chronic illness (none of those original poems made it into the book by the way) but while writing those poems, because poetry was the first genre I ever wrote it, I started trying to find memoirs about illness written by women of color. I’ve always loved the memoir and creative non-fiction genre, but never really tried it for myself. In my search to find books by and about women of color with chronic illness, I was quickly disappointed. I decided then that if the book that I wanted to read did not exist, then I would need to write my own story (I thank Toni Morrison for that). So originally my goal was to write a linear chronic illness. But little did I know where how my illness would progress, diverge, collide and evolve. While I spent years writing blog posts that turned into essays as I tried to make sense of and capture my story of chronic illness, I also never stopped writing poetry about some of those experiences that were too difficult or too complex to capture in an essay. When it came time to structure the book and tell this story, I realized that in order to capture all the highs and lows, all of the chaos and confusion that I felt and overcame, it would have to be a multi-genre book. In my mind there was no other way to tell the story I wanted to tell. As a person with intersectional identities, I knew I NEEDED to take an intersectional genre/form approach. The multi-genre approach provides the reader just a sense of the chaos that I experienced while in flare ups, but the poems also provide moments of breath and pause between the litany of traumatic surgeries, procedures, and symptoms.
RB: Of all the Jasmin(n)es you explore in your book, the one that caught me in the throat was “True Jasmin(n)e.” In “Haima,” you and Dr. Hassan “come to understand and respect each other,” and that revealed so much about that desire to thrive no matter what uncertainties the future holds: “Our doctor-patient relationship consisted of him telling me what I should do and me deciding and taking the advice that suited me best.” I felt this need to self-realize, to self-actualize, permeate the book; which of all the sections, the different, Jasmin(n)es, was the most difficult to write?
JM:The most difficult section to write was Red Jasmin(n)e. It is the section that describes the miscarriage and addresses my many years of infertility. My miscarriage was THE most difficult loss I’ve experienced in my entire life. Yes, I’ve had multiple partial finger amputations, surgeries on my hand, biopsies on many parts of my internal organs and skin and illness has disrupted every facet of my life, but my miscarriage was by far the most significant and emotional loss I’ve ever dealt with.
Red Jasmin(n)e was the most difficult to write because I originally didn’t even intend for that section to be in the book. I had plans to make my infertility story its own complete memoir (and I still might do that), but after many revisions and discussions with my editors and my own inner self, I knew I couldn’t leave this part of my illness journey out. Because that’s what infertility is: a disease. But it’s not recognized as such by most people. I wanted people to realize and know that infertility is like scleroderma, like lupus, like hypothyroidism. It’s an illness that is not my fault and that for ME has no cure. But coming to terms with that for myself was difficult. I wanted and needed an answer as to why I couldn’t do what everyone said was the one of the most basic human functions. There is so much shame and frustration and grief that comes with being infertile and no one likes to talk about it. Which is precisely why I knew I had to. Even though Red Jasmin(n)e comes early on in the collection, most of the events in the essays and poems in that section are the most recent and fresh in my memory.
RB: “Inflammation” especially spoke to me. Those last lines— “She simmers/ and says, “Just remember, el calor, la calor, is fluid./ Like our blood. Like your Spanglish. Like our bodies/ across our borders should be.” How does the poem speak to the rest of the texts on the body in “Summer Jasmin(n)e”?
JM: To me, inflammation is one of the few overtly political pieces in the book. I say overtly because I believe the entire book is political in nature. But that poem specifically deals with a number of politics- body politics, language politics, cultural politics…. .and the “borders” I’m speaking of in this piece aren’t just the physical geographical borders that exist on land and on maps, but metaphorical borders too. I think of the following Susan Sontag quote: “Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.” My book is about those of us who cross the border of wellness into illness and are unable to cross back. We become permanent citizens of “that other place.” And while I very literally mean that our bodies should cross geographical borders, what a miracle it would be to be able to cross those metaphorical ones just as freely as well.
RB:I love the last line in “Hope” in which “I didn’t need to find the light because I wasthe light.” How does “being the light” live beside your religious beliefs and traditions?
JM:I think that it complements my spiritual beliefs and traditions. I was raised Catholic, but I do not practice the religion, or any religion for that matter. I identify as agnostic and I have a spiritual practice that consists of yoga, meditation, walking, writing, reading and journaling. I believe that prayer (because I do pray to whatever God may be out there) is when we talk to God, and meditation is when we listen to Her. I think that all those years I kept waiting to “find the light at the end of the tunnel” was really detrimental for my peace of mind. I kept waiting for my illness to heal, or get better and that once it did there would be this light, and this weight lifted off of me. But that just wasn’t happening. So when I had that epiphany after many grueling months of chronic pain and hospital stays, it was so freeing. I no longer expected God to do anything for me, I no longer prayed for healing or a cure. I accepted my condition and began to build a life around those things that brought me joy instead of only seeing the negative space and allowing my illness to define who I was.
RB: Visibility is so important in this work: how chronic illness is treated by the health care system and society at large, the symptoms that come along with its, as well as the visibility of your own Afro-Latina Dominican identity and your relationship with your family, particularly with your parents. Did writing Night-BloomingJasmin(n)e change your relationship with the poet and essayist herself, Jasminne Mendez, and how you see yourself?
JM:That’s a great question, and not really one I’ve asked myself or really thought about exactly. I think that writing this book or deciding to tell this story made me be gentler with myself. I realized that in order to turn my grief and loss into art I would need to create some distance between myself the writer and Jasminne the character in the book. I couldn’t keep reliving the traumas I had experienced each time I came to the page if I expected to ever finish the book or tell the story in an artful way. So I learned to be gentle with myself, take the time to pause and step away from the writing when it was too much. I learned to not rush my writing and to let the work tell me what it what wanted to be instead of forcing or imposing structures or themes on to each essay or poem. I don’t know if it changed the way I see myself, because honestly, I know I’m a strong, resilient and passionate person. I think the book just showcases those truths. To be honest, the book only captures about half of everything I went through in that decade, but even reading all of what is included in the book is sometimes surprising even to me, that I survived all of that. I’m actually proud to know myself and all I’ve accomplished in spite of illness, and if I can survive my own body trying to kill me, then who knows what I’m capable of next.
RB: What does community mean to you? How do you balance it with the solitary nature of writing?
JM: Community is a part of almost everything I do. I am always in conversation with my community and always finding ways to uplift and support all my communities in as many ways as possible. Whether it’s women, POC, mothers, patients, caregivers, youth…being a part of a community and helping others speak out and share their stories is why I do everything I do. I write so that others – even just ONE person- can feel less alone. Though I may write in the solitude of my office, I write to feel connected to others. I am a part of numerous writing communities including Canto Mundo, Macondo, the Rainier Writer’s Workshop, and VONA. In Houston, my partner and I have created Tintero Projects, an organization created to showcase and support the work of emerging and established Latinx writers from across Texas and the U.S.
To me, the idea that writing happens in isolation is bizarre; my community is always with me. I carry them on my back, in my heart and nestled on my shoulder. I also got my start as a slam/performance poet. I’ve been attending open mics for about 15 years. I STARTED writing in community before I wrote in solitude. Writing and sharing my writing is like church to me, it’s always been communal. I’m definitely more solitary now in my writing practice, but coming together with others to share it, work on it or celebrate it is why I even come to the page in the first place.
RB: Who are you reading now? What poets excite you?
JM:I just finished Sara Borjas’ beautiful book House Like A Window, Mouth Like A Cliffand I cannot recommend this book enough! It is harrowing, tender, loud, and in love with Fresno, mothers, daughters, poets and the female body. Every Pocha, Chicana, Latina, Americana, chingona should own this book. Seriously. Go buy this book.
I also just picked up Natalie Shapero’s book Hard Childand it’s making me laugh and cry and question everything I know about what makes a poem a poem.
I’m always reading and rereading Patricia Smith, Tarfia Faizullah, Natasha Tretheway, Yesenia Montilla, Natalie Diaz and Solmaz Sharif. I have those wonderful poetas on repeat on my nightstand and during my pre-writing rituals.
RB: What’s next for you? What are you working on now?
JM: Right now, I’m working on being present for my daughter Luz Maria. I am working on mothering and learning to be still. I am working on creating a new writing routine and spiritual practice around this thing called motherhood so that I can continue to be someone she will be proud of.
Writing-wise, I just finished my MFA poetry thesis surround the Haitian Massacre of 1937 and I’m going to let it sit for a bit before returning to it and reworking it some more. I’m dabbling a bit in playwriting and it’s really exciting to me because I can be free to flail and fail. No one expects me to be a good playwright so I can basically write and do whatever the hell I want on the page. Lastly, I have drafted a few motherhood essays that I’d like to expand into something more later on down the road but for now I’ll just continue to take notes, reflect and muse on what it means to mother well.