I am a sucker for folklore and the like
This poem hits on part of the reason
Sometimes stories teach us something new; they teach us how to be a better version of ourselves, or how to not fall for worse from ourselves or others. (I use the word “stories” because these epiphanies can be gleaned from music, books, art, online sources - yes, even social media, or tales told straight from the mouth of people we know or were sitting next to on the train. As a kid, I kept a commonplace book of these moving, formative snippets. Now, at best, I underline them, add them to a note in my phone, or share them with friends.
Sometimes, though, I think that we gravitate toward stories that reinforce what we already believe. Attention to the state of the US and the world will immediately disabuse one that this is not the case. Recently, I have wondered if this is why I have always loved folklore and fairy tales: Above every other lesson, they seemed to stress that all one has to be is useful, all one has to do is be what the other characters want and you will always have a place in the world. Give all you have, and you will win your people.
I was talking with Dr. M. the other day, and she helped me put words to a new idea that I am trying to internalize: people are not my friends or my family because I am useful. People are not kind or inclusive because I serve a purpose. Utility is not the basis of a healthy relationship, and anyone who keeps another person in their life out of simple convenience is worth detaching from. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but I am trying.
Ok, that was all a bit TMPD (Too Much Personal Drivel), so here is a poem about looking for the right things in fairy tales. Elfie Tromp’s fairy tales is available on Poetry International, a site I love because it combines poetry and good translation, a skill that is not unlike birthing a fraternal twin on the author’s behalf.
fairy tales
Fairy tales are bad for girls, they say,
they make you passive,
valuing the wrong kinds of love
but fairy tales are fucking fantastic
evil little men
tear themselves in two when
called by their real name
(hello Rumpelstiltskin, you nasty alt-right incel)
then there’s the man who pipes a tune so catchy
that all the rats go wild and show themselves
in all their blissful filthiness so that we can trample them
stomp on
for this is the good old story
of meanness getting its just deserts
but put on the wrong shoes
those fine red pointed boots
and you’ll dance yourself to death and then I think of that influencer
who, for the sake of his image, couldn’t be photographed sticking his tongue out
just go ahead and dance
go ahead and dance yourself to death
at your own party
in your very own fairy tale
then there’s the golden goose, that sticky bird
the internet among the animals, where emotions are as contagious
as golden feathers, mostly written in capitals and misspelt
and our eyes get welded to the words, like to this poem
and then there’s the witch who whisks you away
to the primeval forest, far from the world and its ideals of beauty
fattens you up with the most delicious food and nobody will know
(hello, body positivity!?)
and okay, Ariel cut her tail in two and lost her voice
for a man, but her sisters sat there singing on the rocks
and let the suckers drown, me too, they gurgled
as they slid below the slippery surface
of a smiling woman
and then again there was
the poisoned apple
the glass coffin
the spinning wheel
the glass slipper
but also:
the wishing-table
the gold-ass and
cudgel in the sack
your mouth is lined with teeth
and you cut your flesh with a knife
not everyone is destined for a crown
but every hand
can take every story
and shred it.