It's a blog!
This is for all you folks who have said for years that I need to write a book - this is as good as it's gonna get.
“A woman who writes has power, and a woman who writes is feared.” -Gloria Anzaldúa
I read Gloria Anzaldúa when I was in undergrad at Louisiana State University - perhaps one of the least likely places for anyone to come across a Feminist Theory course that had us reading the likes of what Anzaldúa calls “linguistic terrorism,” but there I was, in 2003, sitting in Dr. Sharon Weltman’s course with 15 other women, most of who belonged to the same sorority and thought an upper-level women’s and gender studies course would be a cake walk.
Poor Dr. Weltman. She regularly left class frustrated with that group of women who didn’t understand why we often had 200+ pages of reading per week for a class that was an elective. She was accustomed to teaching the course as a graduate seminar…
Then, there were the group of… oh, there must of been five of us, who were taking this for a major or minor requirement. We ate it up. We stayed after class and debated French feminism like it was a blood sport; we read postcolonial feminism and it blew our little white girl brains apart; we read bell hooks and thought we were truly woke then. Little did we know…
When I read Anzaldúa, she discussed writing about identity without fear, and how it was impossible to receive an opposing critique for one to simply declare who they are in print, allowing the written word to be a powerful identifier of the self. Her essays from Borderlands are still the stuff of genius.
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I guess I’m writing this to say that I’ve finally capitulated to needing this print marker for myself.
My friends and family have always told me - “You’re such a good writer! You need to write a book, seriously!”
I am not a novelist. I don’t have the bandwidth to create an entire world, just to fill it with the fantastic nature and drama it deserves. I have to spend too much time on the drama and fantastic nature of the world in which I live.
I am an essayist. I am a memoirist. I enjoy writing because it gives me an outlet for which to express myself, one at which I have some talent, but I don’t know if I would call myself any good, whatever that means.
On a recent road trip, I found myself listening (again) to Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (which, if you have not read this gem, GO NOW DON’T STOP until you get to your local bookstore, or order it direct from Jenny’s own bookstore here). At the end, Lawson recounts how she had severe anxiety and imposter’s syndrome for reading her own words into a microphone. She was on the verge of being booted from recording her own words until she realized that… maybe she should just have some fun with it. The recording is hysterical. She sings the chapter titles with the confidence of a Broadway lead, and with the voice of a screeching cat. Well, Jenny, I heard you. I heard you loud and clear.
One of the reasons why I have never taken the plunge to do something like this is because I always thought one had to have some cohesive theme or centralized notion behind the writing. I always thought I had to have ground rules for the work that I wanted to publish.
And… well, I still think, that for some people, I’m just “too much.” For years, I have hidden who I am from many people because I was worried about what people would think of me. I worried about others’ perceptions and judgments, holding that value over my everyday operation. It’s no small blessing to enter the 40s ages, where I’m simply beginning to not give a damn about how others size me up.
So, I decided I’m just going to write for myself. One blog post, at least once a week, for a year. I will publish original writing on Sunday nights and see what this brings. Once a year concludes, I will decide if I want to continue.
Regardless, the record of that year will be here.
So, the name of this blog will be pearl-de-lis. Some of the symbolism here will be obvious. I am a Cajun, a born native of South Louisiana, where I lived for the first 23 years of my life. I don’t so much have a hometown as a I have a home region, which is the west side of Acadiana - the home of the descendants of the Acadian exiles of Nova Scotia after the French and Indian War. My ancestors have had a stronghold in South Louisiana since the mid-1700s, and one of the most enduring symbols of the Acadians/Cajuns has been the fleur-de-lis, or the flower of life. The lily that has three petals representing the Holy Trinity, one of the reasons why the Acadians were exiled in the first place - they didn’t want someone to boss them around that didn’t answer to the pope.
Take that, King George.
The fleur-de-lis is as prominent in South Louisiana as its symbolism is enduring; it is the symbolism for the one pro team that native Louisianans love to hate, but will let nobody else condemn, it is found in several city, state, and regional flags, and it is a demonstration for the French heritage that permeates the people that still live there today. Three of my four grandparents spoke French as a first language, until American public schools literally beat it out of them. The fleur-de-lis is our people, our history. While my accent fades with every day that I no longer live in Louisiana, it roars back in full force when I am around my family. The flower of life blooms once again when I am surrounded by my people.
The pearl is a bit more obscured in its symbolism, but its harbor is not. The thriving oyster industry in Louisiana is one that I witnessed firsthand during my college years, working at an oyster bar as a line cook. The joie de vivre of the Cajun and Creole people is often found in its cuisine, but the humble oyster is so much more talented than its oft-given credit. It creates treasure out of trash. It takes what annoys it and makes it smooth and precious. It takes literal shit and makes it shine… I mean, damn. There’s some innate talent there, don’t you think? But what we often see of the pearl is some round, smooth, perfect thing made into jewelry to display wealth, beauty, and refinement. We don’t often see the misshapen ones. We value the white ones over the black ones. We seek the perfection and demand it for our necks as we clutch them when shit goes sideways.
But… what if we just gave the misshapen ones a little life? Put the black pearls on display and honor their beauty? Be awed when a little tiny pearl cracks your tooth when you bite into your oyster gumbo? Stare in wonder at the glob of shiny stuff in odd shapes that are created by a bivalve in the Gulf of Whatever-Nation-You-Decide-To-Reference?
I think that’s what most pearls are, anyway-misshapen representations of what we try to do when the shit goes sideways. Not perfect, but a representation of the work we have done. Still beautiful, even in its current form. Different shades of pearl, depending on the materials we have. A lifetime of processing into a moment so lovely that we choose to keep it sacred, whole, and string it along with millions of others until we have something cohesive, united, and worn with pride.
Also - my name is Janis. I was named after Janis Joplin. Joplin’s only solo album was titled Pearl, a masterwork of Joplin’s incomprehensible talent before she succumbed to life, itself. It seemed fitting to include it in the name. And ,while Anzaldúa was okay with being feared, that may not be something I want. I just want to write fearlessly.
pearl-de-lis - pearls of life, in words. That’s all this is. Just some stories about my life, my perspectives, my opinions.
So, here’s the blog. Tell friends. Tell stories. Tell me your stories too.
-Proprietary disclaimers:
Most of what will be on this blog is true. Most. I’m allowed to say that because I’m in my 40s and allowed to have memory gaps. I am also allowed to embellish and illustrate in the name of humor and author’s craft. Also, protecting people, places, and events should be a thing. Privacy, too.
Any statements I make or materials I compose are neither the views or reflections of my family, friends, or employers. Only one person can make a statement here, and that’s me. And like I said, it’s mostly true. I leave it to you to decide what’s true and what’s embellished.
I will try my very best to provide content warnings and trigger warnings when I can. I’m also human, and, writing is hard when writing from the first person and projecting headfirst into a fourth wall. If you want to read this, learn to give polite feedback and to forgive.
I don’t entertain hatred or violence of any kind. If I make statements that make you question such, please know that - again - I may be writing with humorous intent and do not wish to portray any real-time hatred or physical violence in real life.
I’m just trying to figure things out in words. We could all use a little grace. I’ll give some to you; you give some to me.
If you are reading this, I hope you enjoy this journey. I hope I do too.
Thanks for being here.
JVB