Mixed Race Studies

Where The Long Grass Bends

Sarabande Books
2004-01-01
192 pages
9 x 6
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-889330-96-9

Neela Vaswani, Teacher in the Master of Fine Arts in Writing Program
Spalding University

Debut collection from a lyrical writer of Indian and Irish descent.

Fervent. Lyrical. Animistic. Incantatory… Where the Long Grass Bends succumbs to no summary. It is a debut collection of stories that is boundless, even boundary-less, because Neela Vaswani has, as David Garnett said of Virginia Woolf, a mind that sticks at nothing. In whirling, catch-me-if-you-can prose, Vaswani tells stories that subvert conventional narrative forms by employing Indian lore (from Hindu to Sufi), Gaelic fable, and historical legend. These are impossible tales, dreaming yet mired in the everyday grit of ordinary life, and told so beautifully that the beginnings and endings of reality and imagination disappear.

In “Possession at the Tomb of Sayyed Pir Hazrat Baba Bahadur Saheed Rah Aleh,” a tomb is opened on Thursdays to women possessed by spirits; a young boy, Nanak, helps his bewitched mother with her particular spirit’s demand by journeying across town to fetch a salty lassi with plenty of pepper and mint. In “Bolero,” Felix and his grandfather, Aitor, play violin and piano throughout a World War II air strike, and in “Twang (Release),” a young girl living in the woods amid wild fox and birch finds her way to the shore, ending up adrift for months in the ocean with the first (and only) man she sees.

Spare, fierce, and absolutely unpredictable, Where the Long Grass Bends is a delight of invention and language. Easy to hold onto but impossible to pin down, each story is an act of surrender, a folkloric revision similar to the achievements of Salman Rushdie, Maxine Hong Kingston, and Angela Carter, but unlike anything you’ve ever read.

You Have Given Me a Country

Sarabande Books
2010-08-15
208 pages
9 x 6
Paperback ISBN: 13: 978-1-932511-82-6

Neela Vaswani, Teacher in the Master of Fine Arts in Writing Program
Spalding University

You Have Given Me a Country is a mixed-genre exploration of blurred borders, identity, and what it means to be bicultural. Combining memoir, history, and fiction, the book follows the paths of the author’s Irish-Catholic mother and Sindhi-Indian father on their journey towards each other and the biracial child they create. Vaswani’s second full-length work thematically echoes such books as The Color of Water, Running in the Family, or Motiba’s Tatoos, but is entirely unique in approach, voice, and story. The book reveals the self as a culmination of all that went before it, a new weave of two varied, yet ultimately universal backgrounds, that spans continents, generations, languages, wars, and, at the center of it all, family.

Fort Red Border

Sarabande Books
2009-08-01
88 pages
trim: 9 x 6
ISBN 13 (paper): 978-1-932511-74-1

Kiki Petrosino

Kiki Petrosino has audacity to spare. She devotes the entire first section of her debut collection of poems to a putative affair the speaker is conducting with an imaginary Robert Redford. In the poems, Redford is solicitous of the speaker, as well as curious about her “difference,” probing her about the various meanings of “natural” when applied to her African-American hair. The poems’ hilarity and poignancy issue from the speaker’s distance from, and yearning toward, the center of mainstream culture. Redford serves as ideal partner, the embodiment of American masculinity––but there is also an odd tenderness and actuality to the relationship. In these poems Petrosino is fearless, proceeding from the recognizable terrain of daily life’s emotions rather than seeking refuge in the cool of mere obscurity. Petrosino’s poems scout a new path, one that discovers a believably fierce, vivid, feeling self.

YOU HAVE MADE A CAREER OF NOT LISTENING

God has spider skin and lives in secret trees. I have stood beside you, saying this, as you reach into the cupboard for another stack of dry noodles. You eat them with the dead still on, with the sticky deadness still on, because you always throw out the foil package of seasoning. So the noodle brick just loosens, slowly, in a flat brine of city water, just squats and spreads in the center of the frying pan like a washed-up boxer or a stranger’s face disappearing into morphine. After the fight the boxer wraps a towel around his hips and walks into his manager’s office. Some boys wipe fifty bucks’ worth of sweat from the ring, then head to the all-night diner smelling like stacks of thumbs. Meanwhile, dollars bills are blooming in the stranger’s lonely raincoat pocket. It is 5:00 a.m. There are places you will never go with me, no matter how many times you ask, or how hard you eat.