While some consider the prison break scene in Shawshank Redemption to be an iconic moment in English-language cinema, in this story about friendship and freedom, the scene that stuck with me was one in which Andy receives a whopping 200 books for the prison library. As a child watching the film, it amazed me to think of prisoners having access to a library. To think that these people who had been sentenced, rightfully or unjustly, for terrible crimes, could experience the most special joy that I felt sitting in the quiet of my neighbourhood library, with no pressure to speak to anybody but sharing space with other connoisseurs of books-and-the-quiet, and an endless supply to quench my thirst for more stories. What a wonderful thought!
In the film, Andy acquires these books by tirelessly writing letters to the state legislature every week for several years, requesting more funding for the library in an effort to keep the memory of his late friend and prison librarian alive. The joy on his face when his request finally comes through now feels oddly relatable—this is not unlike what we at 345 experience every time someone visits us bearing books for our feminist library of writing by women and queer authors.
At a Queer Reading Party hosted with Gaysi at our studio last weekend, we had the chance to read Priya Dali’s wonderful collection of books with a group of children and adults. Picture books about children exploring gender, owning their trans identities, and books about adopted children or “heart babies”, amongst many, many others. We read together in silence at first, picking up books from the spread and passing them around. The group was then asked if anyone would like to read their book aloud.
It is invaluable to observe what happens when a text is read in a group. As our bodies leaned in to listen to the readers with softer voices, or as we laughed together when we encountered a particularly funny part of a book, a sense of connection was built in the group. After each story was read out, there was an exchange of personal anecdotes and several expressions of longing—to have had childhoods where such books were easily available to us; where stories such as these could have held space for our own personal journeys with gender, sexuality and our identities; and a more inclusive environment to have grown up in. In these conversations, there was also the expression of our dedication to creating a more inclusive world as a legacy we leave behind for the coming generations, an exercise in hope, if you will.
In her book Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home, author and dreamworker Toko-pa Turner writes, “At the very heart of ‘belonging’ is the word ‘long.’ To be-long to something is to stay with it for the long haul. It is an active choice we make to a relationship, to a place, to our body, to a life because we value it. Even knowing that it may not be all that we hope it to be, we are keeping the long view of what is possible, and our life becomes an offering to making it so.” If we seek to feel this belongingness in community, could reading together then be a way to nurture our relationships with others, and with our shared visions for the future?
For as long as people have had the ability to communicate through speech, stories have been told. There is a soft humanness to finding value in shared spaces where we absorb these stories. Take for instance the mehfil gatherings which were, not too long ago, quite prevalent in the Indian subcontinent. These were often intimate gatherings where poems were read out loud to a flock of enthusiasts. Or more recently, the culture of spoken word poetry, which is also notable for how it made room for the audience to participate with a passionate response—by cheering on the performers or snapping fingers. In both these forms of poetry-sharing, one’s mastery of the art is not a prerequisite to be present in the gathering. An appreciation for the magic of words, and an enthusiasm for experiencing this wonder amongst other humans is all it takes.
Deepika Arwind led a poetry workshop at the Sandbox Collective studio last month, where we read a range of poetry, from Agha Shahid Ali to Warsan Shire. Here’s an excerpt from Shire’s ‘What They Did Yesterday Afternoon’:
i’ve been praying,
and these are what my prayers look like;
dear god
i come from two countries
one is thirsty
the other is on fire
both need water.
later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.
There is a sense of collective breath that is forged when we read aloud and listen to poems or stories together—the embodied responses, the sighs and the gasps when these words articulate different truths which land in that space where our emotions, perceptions and cognition intermingle. The small delights of such experiences have the capacity to offer us great joy. May the pleasure of reading continue to crack open the world to us, and may we continue to find strength, compassion, and solidarity through books.
In this spirit, we hope to see you at our feminist library at 345! Come explore our collection of texts by women and queer authors. And if you would like to run a reading circle with us at the studio, do write to us at sandboxcollective.info@gmail.com.