Introduction:
So, how long have I known Elizabeth Cranford Garcia? Many years. Don’t ask how many. Let’s just say I stopped expecting the face of the person I was then to look back at me in the mirror. Or to use Liz’s metaphor, perhaps at some point I have been resurrected into a stranger’s body. But back when I was a teacher in Thomasville, Georgia, Liz was a student in my sophomore English class. Even then, Liz was an outstanding intellect with an exacting work ethic. I also taught her brother and sister, and her mother was a colleague of mine. I have kept up with what was going on in the Cranford family through Facebook posts—one of the only good things about Facebook these days. And that’s how I learned Liz had a new poetry collection.
She is an incredibly accomplished young woman. She is the former Poetry Editor for Dialogue: a Journal of Mormon Thought, previous Poetry Editor for Segullah, and a contributor to Fire in the Pasture: 21st Century Mormon Poets. She has twice been nominated for the Pushcart prize, and her first chapbook, Stunt Double, was published in 2016 through Finishing Line Press. She is a former Assistant Professor of English Literature, with an M. A. from Valdosta State University and a B.A. from Brigham Young University. Her work has most recently appeared in Chatauqua, Tar River Poetry, Portland Review, CALYX, Tinderbox Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, and SWWIM.
Her latest collection is Resurrected Body (Cider Press Review 2024).
Interview:
Donna Meredith: A resurrected body implies a death and rebirth. Could you talk about the title—and the epigraph written by Louise Gluck?
Elizabeth C. Garcia
Elizabeth C. Garcia: My original title was “Resurrection Body,” after one of the poems in the collection about my grandmother, which poses the question about what we expect those bodies to be like–will they be “perfect,” as in free of all evidence that we suffered? Or will they record the experiences we lived through that made us who we are? Later, I got some really good advice to change the title to “Resurrected,” to indicate something more corporeal, and I liked the idea because it also implied that the book itself is a sort of “body,” something that was reborn in the process of finding my own voice. This is why I ultimately landed on Gluck’s epigraph–because it emphasizes voice in conjunction with being “raised from death,” and that’s what I hope comes across in this book. In an earlier draft, I’d structured the order of the poems to end with poems about my children–which is still the case–but I realized that the way I’d presented them, I was implying somehow that it’s the children that save us—which is NOT the case. Just because we love them doesn’t mean that their demands aren’t part of what makes us disappear. The thing that helps us survive the death/loss of identity of being a wife and mother is having a voice, or finding it, finding something that helps us realize our core identities, not having a functional role that depends upon other people.
DM: I love the cover illustration. Were you pleased with the way it illustrates the themes of this volume of poems?
ECG: I love the cover art! The editor sent me some ideas, and when I found this artist, I was really drawn to his style, and this particular image I felt really spoke to the motifs in the book about death and rebirth, especially the tree growing through her, and that it’s red. It was sort of a magic moment.
DM: I was slayed by the introductory poem, “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” You capture the impossibility of any dignity or modesty during childbirth. But the last image of “this thing / fists tight against its face / waiting for the next right hook” really intrigues me. Why the fists and right hook?
ECG: That was one of my earliest poems about the birth of my first child, and that’s literally how she came out–quiet, with her eyes open and her fists against her face–and it just struck me, that wary, defensive posture. She’s not really a fighter though–she’s actually my most compliant child, and I have to encourage her to speak up for herself and not be a martyr just to please me. So in some ways I think that image speaks more about the way I interact with the world. I’ve always been a bit defensive against anything that I think is trying to limit me, and I definitely have a soapbox about encouraging women to not be martyrs to please other people.
Donna Meredith
DM: You wrote the first poem in the section titled “karst,” “Motherhood as Safety Coffin” for a woman who died after experiencing severe postpartum depression, according to your note at the end of the volume. It seems you might be suggesting in this and some other poems that giving birth can also be a death of sorts, of being buried alive. Could you talk about this feeling?
ECG: I think most moms can relate to this idea of being completely overwhelmed by what’s expected of them. I personally had many moments that felt like I was buried under the load of keeping bodies alive, which really felt lifeless and empty. I don’t think I ever had postpartum depression–a diagnosis and long-term experience– but I had a taste of what that’s like. And I think for women who are used to being capable and self-sufficient, it’s hard for them to ask for help, and to even recognize what their limits might be, so it’s hard for them to see it and get help. And if they do try–will people listen? How hard will they have to fight for themselves? In the story I referenced, which people can read about at TheEmilyEffect.org, her family was actually really supportive, and I can’t speak to their experience, but I do think there’s a cultural narrative of self-sufficiency that makes women wait far too long before trying to get help. The Christian call to “lose yourself” in order to find yourself makes this tendency really problematic.
DM: A number of these poems use sinkhole imagery. I remember the incident you describe of Jeffrey Bush being swallowed by one (the horror of it!), but your sinkholes often seem to mean more than literal ones. Please share your thoughts on these images in your poetry.
ECG: I’ve always been fascinated by sinkholes. There was one near my grandparents’ house in South Georgia that we weren’t allowed to go near, and as I started pondering the idea, I saw so many metaphors for it–the fear of being buried alive, fear of the unknown, the sensation of having your reality drop from underneath your feet, why bad things happen to good people–all the big questions and mysteries we don’t always have satisfactory answers for. I think there’s an element of guilt or blame that some people assign to really tragic events like that–and some we take upon ourselves– which I find really unhelpful. But we all have that instinct to want to make meaning of things, and I was really speaking to those desires.
DM: Another image that really caught me was “a stomach growling for self.” Is marriage and growing up always a loss of self to some extent?
Elizabeth C. Garcia
ECG: Yes, I agree. Being a mother has definitely tutored me in patience as I’ve set aside my own immediate needs to see to my children’s or spouse’s, because I can see they’re at the limit of their abilities. But I think that’s the key; I’m always on the lookout for times when they might be making demands of me that they could do for themselves, and saying No, because it doesn’t actually help either of us. There’s a constant balancing act of needs, which I’m sure I could go on and on about! I know I’m a better person through my experience of raising kids and being married, but being a good spouse and mother doesn’t necessitate sublimating all our desires, and it’s really harmful on everyone to do that.
DM: Was there a specific inspiration for the poem “Shit Mom”? Do you think all mothers worry they are shit moms? (I know there are moments I felt like one.)
ECG: I think all GOOD moms worry that they’re shit moms. We know there are some bad ones–but then who gets to decide? I remember feeling really indignant after reading an article by Alice Walker’s daughter in which she lambasted her mother’s selfishness and neglect. Then a friend reminded me that maybe that’s not the whole story–and she was right about my quick judgment. I definitely think that we tend to jump to conclusions about which mom is doing her job based on their kids’ actions, or based on one bad day. Whenever there’s a horrifying story about a mom leaving her baby in the car, and the baby dies, she becomes the villain, and we think, “How could she forget her own child?” I know exactly how. The mental load can be just too much. I have a lot of sympathy for women who find themselves in their extremity, in desperate situations. The incident in the poem is a time when I made a poor decision when I was in a very vulnerable state, and had some legal consequences. But it was a real incident, and I remember someone saying, “Why didn’t you just ask for help?” And thinking, but you would have said No! Which I think speaks to the problem of expecting people to be self-sufficient, and that if we ask for help, we’ll be judged for not being a good mom.
DM: I couldn’t help but notice each section starts with an epigraph by Mary Shelley from Frankenstein. Could you talk about these choices?
ECG: When I was advised by another poet (Derrick Harriell) to revise my title, he talked about how the collection felt like an “assemblage of parts”–and I thought, Frankenstein! And I saw a way to tie things together, that I needed to go back and re-read it–and I saw so many great connections there with creating something, with forming a self and trying to find a voice, with being misjudged. It felt like a great fit for some of the motifs–especially the electricity/lightning that keeps popping up.
DM: How did you ever find time to write these beautiful poems while raising three young children?
ECG: Honestly, over the years, I felt like I wasn’t writing enough. I couldn’t write when I was pregnant and sick, or when I was nursing. I’d forget how to write–how to think about poetry, or anything worth saying. But then I’d get to a place where I could manage, and I’d find ways to get back to it. I needed it. I had a very supportive poetry group, and when I found myself floundering, I’d look for an opportunity to take an online class or go to a workshop. My spouse has been really supportive along the way! After having my third child, when I knew I was done with that phase, and I could really get back into it, I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic, which really helped me get my motivation and perspective back to devote my own time and space to writing again. I had to look at it as my vocation, instead of my hobby, and prioritize it during the day, instead of thinking I could get to it when my “work” (domestic duties) were done–which they never are!
DM: Liz, thank you for taking the time to share your writing process with readers of Southern Literary Review. We wish you all the best in your future writing endeavors.
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