CURRENT ISSUE

Removal to Resurgence: Jayli Wolf interviews Jenna Timmons-Oikawa

The first stanza feels gentle on the surface, even as there is a realization of a very difficult removal. What did you want the reader to feel as they entered the poem?

The feelings I was trying to evoke were those of domestication and a softness juxtaposed with subtle echoes of colonialism. I wanted the first stanza to read somewhat like a still life painting. Starting at the centre of the home, at the table, with the vanilla ice cream being placed into a ceramic bowl, something round, almost womb-like, but breakable. I wanted the reader to know that this is a gentle space, and also that this is not a scene of only domestic bliss but that of dislocation and upheaval, which I tried to represent with the imagery of the surrendering flags.

I wanted the colours to also evoke emotions. Everything in front of the reader is white—the ceramic bowl, the vanilla ice cream, the sugar, and the surrendering flags—while everything adjacent is red—the hummingbird feeder next to the bowl, the rhubarb, which is being covered with white sugar.

While writing this piece, the image of red dresses kept popping into my mind, and I kept thinking about how my mom was missing. I wanted a reflection of red being almost taken over by the white to be a subtle hint of what is to come in the poem.

When you were drafting this poem, how did the breaks between sections emerge? Were they more intuitive, or did they come through revision?

The breaks were more intuitive. I found it important to separate the sections so that there is blank space, what I attune to as silence, between each section. I also intended the sections to read as if they are from different stages of my mother’s life: the initial removal to the resurgence.

I wrote this piece in two separate parts: Part i, and ii, were written at the same time but were always separated from one another. The numbering of the sections, if I was going to use Roman or Arabic numerals, was something that I played with. I liked the aesthetic of the Roman numerals, and they felt like they fit the tone of the piece.

Part ii needed distance from part i. The reader enters a different space from the home environment. I wanted to show the world outside the home, the reality, while also showing the silence of this reality in the home. This is very different from the gentle space the poem enters with.

I needed to take time before I was ready to write parts iii and iv. This has to do with the care of the piece, and myself in my writing process, which I speak to more in your next question.

What does care look like in your writing process: before, during, or after a piece is finished?

What a beautiful question, thank you for asking it. I’m unsure if you are speaking to care of the piece, or care of the writer, but I find both are important so I will touch on each.

I have a quote from Siavash Saadlou above my computer that states, “Good memoir, like good poetry, is about the integrity of the gaze you turn back on your life.” [From this interview with Daniel Allen Cox.] I think about this daily when I write and feel it directly links to the care I put into my pieces. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder back at my life, and drawing inspiration from it. As a later-in-life emerging writer, I feel that I have gained the insight to do this in a way I was unable to do when I was younger. One of the many gifts I have been given with age.

Often, care for my piece comes in the form of space, silence and research. I write for discovery, and I don’t usually have too much of an idea of where a piece is going when I start it. Being able to step back from it and give it space to breathe and settle and show me a little of what it is trying to say or not say is an important part of my process. Oh how I wish I was like those poets who are able to sit down and write a poem in one go! But I need the room and time. I also tend to do a lot of research while writing. I usually write at a computer, and have two screens up, one for the piece I’m working on, and one for any research I need to do, or I might have a piece up on the screen that inspires me. I find that this is all part of the caring—that I am nurturing and listening to the piece and what it needs, while I am doing the same for myself.

The level of vulnerability it takes to write poetry and nonfiction, at times, is overwhelming. As a person with a disability, I have to prioritize my self-care. Parts iii and parts iv were more difficult for me to write than the first two sections, and I needed to give them the care they needed, while also providing myself with that same level. Using the word “Indian” over and over in part iii was emotionally charged for me, and though I wrote that section quickly, it left a raw feeling, and a tug in my stomach, as if my umbilical cord was still attached to my mother. I felt her and I felt some of the weight of what she must feel being a 60s Scoop survivor.

There are times I sit and cry with my pieces. I allow myself this release. I cried once this piece was complete, for multiple reasons. I had stopped writing for around a decade and this was the first piece I wrote when I started again. There were, and are, a lot of emotions attached to this piece. Emotions of sadness and also relief, both of which I held at the same time, as if I was cupping one in each hand.

When I feel overwhelmed, I feel it is the piece telling me to step back. I try to listen. Then I remember my purpose, my reason for sharing stories, and gaze over my shoulder.

You name unceded Anishinaabe Algonquin territory in your bio. How does being rooted in that place (both land and home) influence how and what you write?

I find this question so interesting for me because of the word “rooted.” Being from a military family, I have only ever felt rooted to Canada/being Canadian, and to my family. I have never felt rooted in any city, province, or country other than Canada. Even in my adult life, I have moved a lot. It seems to get into your blood when you grow up in a military family, that constant need for change. When people used to ask me where I was from, my answer was simply, Canada. Nowhere specific.

This has become complicated for me in the past few years. I am very proud of my father, who would have fought and given his life for this country and the people in it. I am also ashamed of my country, what it has done to people in my own family, and what it has done and continues to do to the people of this country and this land. I carry these two truths simultaneously, and grapple with them in my writing. How can I be proud to be Canadian when Canada would have liked to erase my mom from existence, and when they couldn’t do that, tried the best they could to erase her history and heritage? They were almost successful in keeping her from finding her way back. Yet, she is rising, as am I, on this journey of discovery to become whole.

I live in the political centre of Canada. There is beautiful architecture and ugly politics everywhere. There are people living in our country without running or safe water. It feels surreal. How is this happening here? The why seems disgustingly obvious.

I live on stolen land, and my mom was stolen. I think this all comes into play when I write, and it is always in my mind.

When you step back from the poem now, what do you recognize that the poem knows? Perhaps even more clearly than you did when you began writing it?

The poem knows more of my feelings and thoughts on what it means to be missing. It was only when I wrote this piece, and a subsequent nonfiction piece that was inspired by this one, that I began to truly understand that my mother was missing and that she was taken. It had never sunk in before, I am a little ashamed to say. I knew, but had never processed it myself until I wrote these pieces. The beautiful therapy that is writing at times.

The piece led me to a deeper understanding of myself and my own experience with intergenerational trauma and reclamation. I struggled with the ending of this piece and rewrote it several times. It became so stuck in my mind that I had a note in my phone with lines that I’d scribble down while out grocery shopping, or in bed right before falling asleep, but nothing was feeling right. Then I woke up early one morning and I was looking out at the trees, and thinking of Winnipeg winters, and the last stanza came to me. The poem knew the ending it needed, and was waiting for me, and for the right time for me to discover it. I didn’t recognize how strong the image of resurgence and perseverance was until I looked back on the piece a couple of weeks after it was complete.

As an emerging writer, what has surprised you most about sharing your work with readers?

I have been surprised by everything really! The warm reception my work has received, being offered an opportunity to engage with you, and I am honoured that this piece has been put forward for a nomination for The National Magazine Awards. I will say, I am suffering from a little bit of imposter syndrome. When I submitted this piece, my husband had been my lone reader, and was for the first while when I started writing again.

I recently started attending a small writer’s group at the Greely Library in rural Ottawa. We lovingly call it our “writers support group.” It had been such a long time since anyone had seen my work that I was very nervous to share it. Out came the vulnerable imposter with her slouched shoulders, and shaking hands. Having them be so supportive and really encourage me to submit my work for publication has greatly improved my confidence, though the imposter syndrome still lingers. One group member commented about my writing, “Your metaphors and imagery are incredibly evocative and intimate.” I carried this compliment with me for weeks. I also am working with a writer right now who told me the last stanza of my poem is going to stay with them a very long time. What a beautiful thing to say to someone about their work.

What really excites me is hearing others’ perspectives on my pieces, what they see and feel. I am always amazed to hear how others interpret things, or what a certain image evokes for them. I feel once a piece is out in the world, it is no longer my own, but belongs to a community/ collective. The words and story are there to be read and interpreted and hopefully, spark conversation, even an internal dialogue. I find it’s so thrilling to have anyone want to engage with my work, whether that be reading it on their own, or having the opportunity to discuss it with them. I hope that I continue to get the opportunity to engage with readers and writers alike.

Thank you so much for your thoughtful questions and allowing me the space to discuss my work and process!

 

 

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