Myriam Gurba is a writer and artist. She is the author of the memoir Mean, a New York Times editors’ choice. O, The Oprah Magazine, ranked Mean as one of the best LGBTQ books of all time. Publishers’ Weekly describes Gurba as having a voice like no other. Her essays and criticism have appeared in TheParis Review, TIME.com, and 4Columns. She has shown art in galleries, museums, and community centers. Gurba is also one of the founding members of The Brick House Cooperative. She lives in Long Beach, California, with herself.
EB: How did you begin writing in general and what drew you to nonfiction specifically?
MG: I started writing when I was a teenager. In high school, I read prose and poetry that I admired and thought, “I could do that.” And so I did.
EB: Nice.
MG: I became drawn to nonfiction because nothing is weirder or more compelling than reality.
EB: I know that you also write fiction, poetry, criticism, and that you make art as well. How is your creative process similar/different when creating nonfiction vs. these other forms?
MG: My “creative process” often involves a lot of play, and by play I mean having fun and making messes. I do a lot of “writing in my head.” I’m constantly composing prose in the privacy of my mind. I also do a lot of mental writing while walking, running or riding in cars. Poetry differs because it tends to come in rapid-fire bursts.
EB: I love your memoir Mean. Can you speak a bit about what sparked your drive to write the book?
MG: I wanted to write experimentally about sexual violence. I had read memoirs on the subject written according to very white aesthetics and the aesthetics bothered me. They seemed constrictive. I wanted to write about sexual violence irreverently and so I did. I find prose that deals with sexual violence in reverential tones troubling because I’d rather reserve reverence for phenomena that deserve it. I would rather not represent sexual violence committed against me with reverence. I prefer to write about it with anger, disgust, and sense of humor.
EB: I have to say that I did not expect just how funny Mean would be! I went into it expecting a pretty heavy book, based on what I knew about the topic, but I regularly found myself laughing out loud at your sarcasm and wordplay. What role do you think humor plays in personal nonfiction, especially in personal nonfiction about trauma?
MG: A trauma specialist once said that a survivor’s ability to engage in spontaneity indicates healing. I agree with his assessment and humor relies on spontaneity. This logic is why I find storytelling habits that encourage survivors to strictly write with dour reverence about their experiences to be problematic and harmful. I’m not saying that all survivors have to tell their stories with humor. What I’m saying is that making space for humor is important. The promise of laughter is one of the reasons I get out of bed in the morning. Laughter is also one of the best tools that we have for attacking tyrants and abusers. Think about it this way: a shitty teacher’s greatest enemy is the class clown.
EB: So true. One thing I especially loved about Mean is its structure of short vignettes/moments that weave together almost like a collage. In the book you mention how you like the phrase “chaos of memories,” and I feel like the structure mimics that phrase, the chaos that is in our brains. How did you land on the structure of the memoir?
MG: Memory isn’t tidy. Neither is violence. Memories of violence are wildly untidy. I wanted my memoir’s structure to reflect that reality and so a mosaic of fractured vignettes made sense.
I always appreciate when structure reflects content.
EB: In Mean, you write about how you didn’t want to be known as “that girl who got raped” and yet you wrote a memoir about the assault. Obviously, though, Mean shows you are so much more than just “that girl.” What have been some of the frustrations/benefits of having this information about your personal history out in the world?
MG: I would rather be a woman with no history of sexual violence but that’s not who I am. I would rather there be no women with histories of sexual violence but that’s also not reality. All femmes, girls, and women are subjected to patriarchal violence and my work often reflects that truth.
Some people do urge me to “get over” the sexual violence committed against me. Most people who urge me to do so are men but some women have done so as well. I’ve found that the people who most urge survivors and victims to forget are those who prefer to ignore their own traumatic pasts.
EB: So true.
MG: Others are perpetrators of harm who don’t want to be reminded of who they are and what they’ve done. They would prefer for survivors and victims to remain silent so that their guilt can remain dormant.
The primary frustration I’ve had as it relates to the public knowing about a sexual assault that happened to me in 1996 is that there are sometimes creeps who press me for details and fetishize me as a survivor. A man, for example, once said to me, in a gleeful tone, “You survived a serial killer!”
EB: Wow, gross. Though speaking of the voyeuristic aspects, Mean often gets classified as a “true crime memoir.” True crime can be a polarizing topic, and some individuals who have been involved in a crime are frustrated by the salacious nature of the genre. How do you feel about that label for your book?
MG: I used to be more accepting of the classification but my thinking about the category of crime has changed a lot. I now prefer to think of Mean as a memoir and ghost story but not a work of true crime. Crime is a politicized social construct. What U.S. society identifies as crime tells us next to nothing about who is being harmed, how, or by whom. The U.S. criminal justice system is a system but not one that has much to do with justice. And crime is just such a mutable category. Definitions of crime can change dramatically over brief periods of time. Crime, as a social construct, is useful in so far as it tells us about racialized and gendered power imbalances. A great case in point involves the passage and repeal of the 18th Amendment to the US Constitution.
EB: When you’re reading nonfiction, which I’m sure you do often as a teacher and a critic, what do you think makes for really good nonfiction? What advice would you give to people who are attempting to write personal nonfiction about their lives?
MG: I think that whether or not nonfiction is “good” depends largely on the tastes and sensibilities of the audience. That said, my tastes skew towards writing that is campy but also overtly political. I also enjoy reading work that makes me say a-ha!
I prefer to tailor my advice to specific writers because not everyone will benefit from the same advice. Broadly, though, I advise all writers to read a lot. I advise young writers to figure out what they like and emulate the writers they like. It’s okay to try on styles. Mimicking style can be like using a pair of training wheels. You’ll eventually figure out your voice.
EB: I love that. I so agree—I always tell my students to read as much as they can. I don’t get it when writers say they “don’t really read” in the genre they are writing in. Speaking of students: what is it like to have this material out there as a teacher? As a teacher of teenagers myself, I know that my students are always Googling me and reading everything I’ve written. Have your students read your book? What about their parents or school administrators? Do you know? Do you care?
MG: Teachers are human beings. We do all the things that human beings do and have all the experiences that human beings have. I think one of the ugliest aspects of the teaching profession is that we’re held to cruel patriarchal standards of what constitutes “good character.” This is especially the case for female teachers who happen to constitute the bulk of the profession.
EB: I could not agree more.
MG: The profession, just like every other U.S. institution, is in need of a revolution.
EB: What do you find most challenging about writing nonfiction, and what do you find most rewarding?
MG: Choosing what not to tell can be challenging. I find it rewarding to participate in the creation of history.
EB: Finally, what is a favorite passage of nonfiction by a fellow “non-man”?MG: From tatiana de la tierra:“each person who sees a lesbian is marked: lesbians leave their footprint on other people’s faces”