This Body, Unbound (Evan Allgood)

This video contains a quick explanation of the inspiration and process behind my English comps project, This Body, Unbound, as well as a reading of two poems. The project was intended to center the voices of Twin Cities and Northfield’s transgender community members, their experiences with transness, and the joy that is found in discovering oneself. The collection itself contains 10 glosa poems, a style of poetry that traditionally borrows lines from other poems, but in this collection borrows quotes from interviews done with these community members. Please enjoy!

 

Transcript

Hi, my name is Evan Allgood and I use he/him or they/them pronouns. I’m here today to talk to you about my English comps project. 

A few years ago I happened upon a book called Where the Words End and My Body Begins by Amber Dawn. It’s a book of glosa poems, a style of poetry I had never read before. Glosa poems are traditionally 40 line poems in which every tenth line, so line 10, 20, 30, and 40, are pulled from another poem. Dawn chose a bunch of her favorite poets who aligned with her identities as a queer woman survivor, and “glossed” their words. She “glosses” these poems by turning them into glosa poems, which honor their original intent while also honoring the emotions, memories, and thoughts that their lines brought up for her. 

I really loved this as an idea and I decided that I wanted to do something really similar for my comps. I really loved Amber Dawn’s intentionality behind choosing poets whose identities aligned with hers, and I wanted to do the same. I decided that I wanted to do a similar project, but specifically centering transgender voices, and instead of using other poets’ words, as is traditionally done, I wanted to use quotes from my trans community members. 

I spent the summer before my senior year in the Twin Cities interviewing as many people I could. It was genuinely the best summer I’ve ever had. I turned those nearly two dozen interviews into ten poems. I’m going to read two of them to you here, but if you want to hear more of them, feel free to reach out to me and I’ll hit you up.

Since these poems are in a unique style, I want to explain, first, how I’ll read them. First, I will read the quote that I’m glossing, the interviewee’s name, and their pronouns. Then I will begin the poem itself. 

The first poem begins:

“I felt the urge to return to church.

When I showed up, I knew nobody there.

They had to take me on my own terms.

I don’t feel I can face the world alone.”

—Melissa H. {she/her}

—/—/—

 

And maybe I could make an omen out of this.

Maybe there’s something here

that can prove I’ve been trying,

that can show me the future and where I’ll fit.

And maybe there’s a sign here,

a steady voice coming

from a face among the flames,

or a simple note saying

it will all be okay.

I felt the urge to return to church,

 

to open my chest like the tabernacle

and give the doves their stay.

I went there and the doors were heavy,

maple and ornate,

and took two hands

to let me inside.

And maybe that’s when my eyes outed me:

the way I saw the glass and fell to my knees

before god and all of these strangers.

When I showed up, I knew nobody there;

 

they could tell I knew nothing

of incense or wine,

had only the ache of prayer

and the will to stay.

And that morning I finally realized

why we have life lines

in the centers of our palms

as mine met those

whose heads, too, were bowed.

They had to take me on my own terms,

 

they had no choice

but the name I offered.

And yet, they kept their promise

of breath and doorway,

of stained glass and room for more,

of time for rebirth,

for prayer and dance,

for stillness and, maybe, holding.

And praise it, praise it all, for today

I don’t feel I can face the world alone.

 

The following is what I think might be my favorite poem from the collection. The quote is:

“I feel like I have to have

a better definition or a firmer grasp.

I feel like I need to have the right words

and I don’t.”

—Ethan S. {he/him; they/them}

—/—/—

 

The day the water pours from the sky,

the day it fills the cracks in the ground,

uproots the trees from their steadfast homes,

and turns the earth to sea,

we bar our fragile windows,

build a nest upon the floor,

light candles in the doorways,

and set out to pray:

May this storm never leave.

I feel like I have to have

 

something real to give you,

a promise of forever

or something you can hold,

so I reach to pull a story from my teeth,

to find something soft and short

and release it unto you.

But clouds begin to shift,

begin to threaten sunlight,

and I’m frantic, now, for

a better definition or a firmer grasp

 

on who I want to be.

I fear it all ending

before its beginning,

my ears filling with static rain,

this thunder so loud it boils,

steam rising from your arms

as they reach out for me.

They teach me how

to forget to speak:

I feel like I need to have the right words

 

before I am allowed to tell you

how badly I want to become,

how it seems we are moving closer together

and yet it still feels too late.

There is the hum of the rain slowing,

the candles burning down to smoke.

Out of the quiet, she says,

You don’t have to say a thing;

you don’t have to go.

And I don’t.

 

So, I just wanted to say thank you to both of my advisors— my English advisor, Greg Hewett, and my CS advisor, Anna Rafferty for being absolutely stellar and for making both of these projects fun and exciting. And thank you to my friends and all the folks who supported me and everyone who I interviewed for giving me so much of their time. And to you, for watching this video. Yeah, thank you so much!