Interview
Your New American Best Friend: AN INTERVIEW WITH Olivia Gatwood
BY Juliana Crescenzo, Ashley Haden, & Mikaela Langdon
MARCH 2018
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In the digital age, artists are able to interact with their audiences more closely than ever before. This is especially true for poet Olivia Gatwood whose spoken word videos regularly obtain over 100,000 views. Gatwood’s charm and transparency make her seem like the girl next door, so it’s no surprise she titled her first poetry book New American Best Friend.
In addition to writing and performing poetry, Gatwood also runs writing workshops at schools across the country as a Title IX Compliant educator in sexual assault prevention and recovery. Her passion for feminism and social justice heavily influence her work. A self-described believer in “girl power,” Olivia Gatwood doesn’t shy away from the awkward, the burdensome, or even the offensive. New American Best Friend is an honest reflection of her past experiences, and it leaves readers feeling like they found a friend. |
Glassworks Magazine (GM): Poetry has long been a deeply personal medium where writers are able to share things they wouldn’t otherwise say out loud. You take it one step further beyond the personal to the uncomfortable. From periods to secret loves, the death of a friend to broken hearts, you seem to lay it all out there on the page. When you’re writing, do you have a line for what is “too much” to share with an audience? If so, where is that line for you? If there isn’t a line, why is that?
Olivia Gatwood (OG): I come from a family and community of storytellers, and have always really valued storytelling as a method of forming connections and creating dialogue around sometimes taboo topics. So I think it’s always been a really natural practice for me to share stories from my life very openly that would otherwise be considered super vulnerable. Though I can often be a chronic oversharer, I do have a line, and I think often what prevents me from sharing something isn’t necessarily in the nature of its vulnerability but based on whether or not I understand it. I often wait a long time to write about the things I’ve experienced because I want to be certain that I both get it right and also understand its significance to my life and the lives of my readers. For instance, I struggle with depression and have been for years, but am only just recently starting to put that on paper. I think this is largely because I can’t fully wrap my mind around it, why I experience it, or how I want it to live as a poem in the world. This has less to do with it being “too much” to share with an audience, but more so a desire to create intentional work. And I think that’s why I often share my most vulnerable feelings as tangible stories, because they won’t change. What happened, happened. Depression shape shifts, and I think the permanence of a poem can often scare me away from writing about the intangible.
GM: The tangible, on the other hand, certainly seems to be comfortable territory in this book. For instance, you open your poetry book with a poem about pads. The title alone, “Jordan Convinced Me That Pads Are Disgusting,” could be shocking to some readers, and lines such as “with plastic syringe in hand, she wedged the packed cotton into me” have strong imagery about a topic that people often avoid. What was it about this poem that led to selecting it as the first one in this collection?
OG: That was a later choice in the creation of the book, actually. I remember laying the poems out on the floor and I was so stuck in the idea of it being chronological, but still wasn’t feeling the order. When I let myself break out of that, I was able to see the poems as a guide for readers rather than being stuck in when they happened, and Jordan immediately popped out as the obvious choice for opening the book. This story has always been one of my favorites, and the poem I think captures so much of the vulnerability, intensity and humor of that moment in my life but also of that age in general. Friendship between early-teenagers, especially teenage girls, is a deeply intimate experience and is something I wanted to capture throughout the book, so I think it was important for me to start off the book showing that intimacy in a viscerally, physical manner. It also introduces the reader to my work in a “This is what you’re getting and if you don’t like it, leave now,” kind of way.
GM: In the video performance for “Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” you alter your voice for different parts. It can be difficult to convey varying inflections on paper. Do you write your poems with the intention of spoken word or written word?
OG: I began writing poetry with the intention of reading it aloud, so I rarely considered form or page presentation. I’ve always been a very rhythmic writer regardless, so when I started working on poetry that wasn’t solely meant to be performed, I was forced to consider how I could write in a way that wouldn’t lose that cadence on the page. “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” was not a poem I wrote with the intention of publishing, so when I decided to put it in the book, I had to let go of the fact that it would not be in my performative voice, but hopefully communicate something in form. I chose couplets to give the reader a kind of short, bouncy feel, and made most of the text italicized to communicate a different voice than my own.
Olivia Gatwood (OG): I come from a family and community of storytellers, and have always really valued storytelling as a method of forming connections and creating dialogue around sometimes taboo topics. So I think it’s always been a really natural practice for me to share stories from my life very openly that would otherwise be considered super vulnerable. Though I can often be a chronic oversharer, I do have a line, and I think often what prevents me from sharing something isn’t necessarily in the nature of its vulnerability but based on whether or not I understand it. I often wait a long time to write about the things I’ve experienced because I want to be certain that I both get it right and also understand its significance to my life and the lives of my readers. For instance, I struggle with depression and have been for years, but am only just recently starting to put that on paper. I think this is largely because I can’t fully wrap my mind around it, why I experience it, or how I want it to live as a poem in the world. This has less to do with it being “too much” to share with an audience, but more so a desire to create intentional work. And I think that’s why I often share my most vulnerable feelings as tangible stories, because they won’t change. What happened, happened. Depression shape shifts, and I think the permanence of a poem can often scare me away from writing about the intangible.
GM: The tangible, on the other hand, certainly seems to be comfortable territory in this book. For instance, you open your poetry book with a poem about pads. The title alone, “Jordan Convinced Me That Pads Are Disgusting,” could be shocking to some readers, and lines such as “with plastic syringe in hand, she wedged the packed cotton into me” have strong imagery about a topic that people often avoid. What was it about this poem that led to selecting it as the first one in this collection?
OG: That was a later choice in the creation of the book, actually. I remember laying the poems out on the floor and I was so stuck in the idea of it being chronological, but still wasn’t feeling the order. When I let myself break out of that, I was able to see the poems as a guide for readers rather than being stuck in when they happened, and Jordan immediately popped out as the obvious choice for opening the book. This story has always been one of my favorites, and the poem I think captures so much of the vulnerability, intensity and humor of that moment in my life but also of that age in general. Friendship between early-teenagers, especially teenage girls, is a deeply intimate experience and is something I wanted to capture throughout the book, so I think it was important for me to start off the book showing that intimacy in a viscerally, physical manner. It also introduces the reader to my work in a “This is what you’re getting and if you don’t like it, leave now,” kind of way.
GM: In the video performance for “Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” you alter your voice for different parts. It can be difficult to convey varying inflections on paper. Do you write your poems with the intention of spoken word or written word?
OG: I began writing poetry with the intention of reading it aloud, so I rarely considered form or page presentation. I’ve always been a very rhythmic writer regardless, so when I started working on poetry that wasn’t solely meant to be performed, I was forced to consider how I could write in a way that wouldn’t lose that cadence on the page. “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” was not a poem I wrote with the intention of publishing, so when I decided to put it in the book, I had to let go of the fact that it would not be in my performative voice, but hopefully communicate something in form. I chose couplets to give the reader a kind of short, bouncy feel, and made most of the text italicized to communicate a different voice than my own.
"So at the very least, an ode can take us from indifference to measurable pride, and I think that’s a notable movement."
GM: How else do you ensure that spoken word poetry is just as effective on paper as it is when performed?
OG: I think all poems can exist on page and stage equally, it just means being intentional with both. When performing a poem that usually exists on page, you should play with voice, and when writing down a poem that you usually perform, you should play with form and layout. The concept that “page poetry” is somehow opposite from “spoken word poetry” is ridiculous to me. It’s literally just a matter of moving text from one place to another.
GM: When reading “What Sex Becomes,” we were all expecting something more explicitly about sex. Instead, the poem is a waitress’s observation of a couple seemingly in love on Valentine’s Day and the hollowness she feels as a result. Why did you choose to name this poem “What Sex Becomes?” Did you know the title when you wrote the poem or is that something you decided on later?
OG: That poem was originally titled “The Errand That Sex Becomes.” I’m a big fan of either titles that give away everything, (“IN PHILADELPHIA AFTER DONALD TRUMP IS ELECTED” by Linette Reeman), or titles that are misleading (“Irreplaceable” by Beyonce). In giving the reader either everything before they jump in, or make them feel like they have everything only to realize they don’t have anything at all. The original title felt like it gave away too much. I didn’t want people to walk into the poem knowing it was going to be about a dead sex life. Instead, I wanted the reader to feel a small sense of hope, maybe even eroticism, only to crash their dreams with the brutal reality of a dormant libido.
GM: You have several odes in this book to different things that are often considered shameful or offensive like period underwear and the the word “pussy.” In the video for your poem “Ode to My Bitch Face,” you talk a little bit about the intended purpose for the odes: to “counteract that feeling [of shame].” Was there something specifically that sparked this idea? And as a followup, why did you choose “odes” as the method to tackle those shameful feelings?
OG: I don’t actually remember what sparked this idea. It’s funny because only once I started naming the ode as a self-care practice did I realize I’ve been writing odes to the unexpected for a very long time, like since my young teenage life. I like odes as a form because I think they force the writer to zoom in, especially when being asked to praise that which we’ve been taught to dismiss or dislike. Odes always get me writing for that reason, they kind of push me into looking at one thing, rather than being daunted by a grand idea or concept. As far as using it to tackle shameful feelings, I’m not a huge preacher of “putting things into the universe” but I do think re-examining why we hate the things we do about ourselves, and then pushing ourselves to see how these features or attributes or practices have been valuable to our identities can manifest a lot of beauty and growth. I remember feeling SO much shame about having stains on my underwear. And eventually, I grew out of that shame, but also never really moved into actively seeing it as something worthy of praise. So at the very least, an ode can take us from indifference to measurable pride, and I think that’s a notable movement.
GM: In “Like Us,” you talk about first kisses and first loves. You attribute the former to a boy named Noah whom you refer to as a “safe bet.” Then, in great detail, you describe the sensual friendship with a girl named Margot. In comparison to her, Noah seems fairly insignificant; this section within the poem even takes up less space on the page. Given the epigraph, in particular, it’s pretty obvious Margot was the real first kiss and Noah was a cover up story. Why include this instead of just writing a poem about Margot?
OG: I think all poems can exist on page and stage equally, it just means being intentional with both. When performing a poem that usually exists on page, you should play with voice, and when writing down a poem that you usually perform, you should play with form and layout. The concept that “page poetry” is somehow opposite from “spoken word poetry” is ridiculous to me. It’s literally just a matter of moving text from one place to another.
GM: When reading “What Sex Becomes,” we were all expecting something more explicitly about sex. Instead, the poem is a waitress’s observation of a couple seemingly in love on Valentine’s Day and the hollowness she feels as a result. Why did you choose to name this poem “What Sex Becomes?” Did you know the title when you wrote the poem or is that something you decided on later?
OG: That poem was originally titled “The Errand That Sex Becomes.” I’m a big fan of either titles that give away everything, (“IN PHILADELPHIA AFTER DONALD TRUMP IS ELECTED” by Linette Reeman), or titles that are misleading (“Irreplaceable” by Beyonce). In giving the reader either everything before they jump in, or make them feel like they have everything only to realize they don’t have anything at all. The original title felt like it gave away too much. I didn’t want people to walk into the poem knowing it was going to be about a dead sex life. Instead, I wanted the reader to feel a small sense of hope, maybe even eroticism, only to crash their dreams with the brutal reality of a dormant libido.
GM: You have several odes in this book to different things that are often considered shameful or offensive like period underwear and the the word “pussy.” In the video for your poem “Ode to My Bitch Face,” you talk a little bit about the intended purpose for the odes: to “counteract that feeling [of shame].” Was there something specifically that sparked this idea? And as a followup, why did you choose “odes” as the method to tackle those shameful feelings?
OG: I don’t actually remember what sparked this idea. It’s funny because only once I started naming the ode as a self-care practice did I realize I’ve been writing odes to the unexpected for a very long time, like since my young teenage life. I like odes as a form because I think they force the writer to zoom in, especially when being asked to praise that which we’ve been taught to dismiss or dislike. Odes always get me writing for that reason, they kind of push me into looking at one thing, rather than being daunted by a grand idea or concept. As far as using it to tackle shameful feelings, I’m not a huge preacher of “putting things into the universe” but I do think re-examining why we hate the things we do about ourselves, and then pushing ourselves to see how these features or attributes or practices have been valuable to our identities can manifest a lot of beauty and growth. I remember feeling SO much shame about having stains on my underwear. And eventually, I grew out of that shame, but also never really moved into actively seeing it as something worthy of praise. So at the very least, an ode can take us from indifference to measurable pride, and I think that’s a notable movement.
GM: In “Like Us,” you talk about first kisses and first loves. You attribute the former to a boy named Noah whom you refer to as a “safe bet.” Then, in great detail, you describe the sensual friendship with a girl named Margot. In comparison to her, Noah seems fairly insignificant; this section within the poem even takes up less space on the page. Given the epigraph, in particular, it’s pretty obvious Margot was the real first kiss and Noah was a cover up story. Why include this instead of just writing a poem about Margot?
OG: I know you didn’t intend to name this as a suggestion, but now that you’ve asked the question, I kind of wish I had just made the story about Margot! Shit. That being said, I wrote the poem after reading Marie Howe’s poem “Practicing” in which she talks about kissing her friends as a young girl, but particularly about how when asked who our first kiss was, we often look to the first hetero-romantic experience, as though the sheer nature of it’s hetero-ness is what makes it valid. I say “we” because I found community in that Marie Howe poem, and since writing “Like Us,” have found that other folks experienced this as well. So the inclusion of Noah meant to illuminate this reaction and then the undoing of it. Noah was an important part of my young life, but the reality is, he was not my first kiss. Many girls came before him, and I spent a lot of years erasing them from my life.
"For readers who have read my book and see themselves, I hope they feel, in some way, held by the understanding that they’re not alone, that the process of life and sex and love is not an even or simple trajectory, that shame is not an organic emotion but is instead handed to us by the outside world, and that their memories, regardless of how mundane they seem, are deeply valuable and worthy of being shared".
GM: You end the collection with “Ode to the Women on Long Island,” and it is such a lovely homage not just to the women of Long Island but to women everywhere. So we have to ask, why Long Island? Since you’re not originally from there, what about that location caught your attention and led to this view of those women?
OG: Thank you! I lived on Long Island for two years with my former collaborator and her mother, in their long time home. I was touring a lot at the time and didn’t have many opportunities to create community, so I kind of inadvertently got indoctrinated into a group of Long Island women, the friends of my business partner’s mom, and her mom herself. She ran a yoga class, where I was witness to so many hilarious, moving, unapologetic conversations about the body, motherhood, politics, holidays. It was the loudest yoga class ever. I grew up in New Mexico, so the Long Island accent was only something I’d heard on television. To see and get to know these women in real life honestly left me awestruck.
I think what I loved most about them was the fact that they weren’t being loud and angry as some kind of intentional resistance to the patriarchal expectation, it was just who they were. They didn’t know how to be anything different. I loved that about them. I’ve always been really inspired by the many different kinds of communities that women create out of necessity—whether it be as a staff of waitresses at a diner, a group of mothers, an arts collective, or a yoga class on Long Island—I think women are masters at making homes out of each other.
GM: We already referenced “Like Us,” in which you talk about the intersection of childhood and sexuality. Another poem that connects with that theme is “Ode to Elise in Eighth Grade Health Class” where we see more of a struggle with attraction and identity at a young age. Why is childhood the lens with which you chose to examine sexuality?
OG: I’d like to reference back to my answer to the first question for this one. I write about that which I feel most capable of understanding, which means I am often looking back. While I was writing the book, I was thinking a lot about sexuality, specifically through the lens of repression, and so I was writing less about my current queer identity (which I was having trouble understanding) and more about my queer identity as a young person (which I’d already processed). Since writing the book, I’ve reached a place of clarity around my own sexual identity, so I dunno, expect some gay poems coming soon.
GM: What would you like readers who have experienced similar struggles to take away from your book?
OG: For readers who have read my book and see themselves, I hope they feel, in some way, held by the understanding that they’re not alone, that the process of life and sex and love is not an even or simple trajectory, that shame is not an organic emotion but is instead handed to us by the outside world, and that their memories, regardless of how mundane they seem, are deeply valuable and worthy of being shared.
OG: Thank you! I lived on Long Island for two years with my former collaborator and her mother, in their long time home. I was touring a lot at the time and didn’t have many opportunities to create community, so I kind of inadvertently got indoctrinated into a group of Long Island women, the friends of my business partner’s mom, and her mom herself. She ran a yoga class, where I was witness to so many hilarious, moving, unapologetic conversations about the body, motherhood, politics, holidays. It was the loudest yoga class ever. I grew up in New Mexico, so the Long Island accent was only something I’d heard on television. To see and get to know these women in real life honestly left me awestruck.
I think what I loved most about them was the fact that they weren’t being loud and angry as some kind of intentional resistance to the patriarchal expectation, it was just who they were. They didn’t know how to be anything different. I loved that about them. I’ve always been really inspired by the many different kinds of communities that women create out of necessity—whether it be as a staff of waitresses at a diner, a group of mothers, an arts collective, or a yoga class on Long Island—I think women are masters at making homes out of each other.
GM: We already referenced “Like Us,” in which you talk about the intersection of childhood and sexuality. Another poem that connects with that theme is “Ode to Elise in Eighth Grade Health Class” where we see more of a struggle with attraction and identity at a young age. Why is childhood the lens with which you chose to examine sexuality?
OG: I’d like to reference back to my answer to the first question for this one. I write about that which I feel most capable of understanding, which means I am often looking back. While I was writing the book, I was thinking a lot about sexuality, specifically through the lens of repression, and so I was writing less about my current queer identity (which I was having trouble understanding) and more about my queer identity as a young person (which I’d already processed). Since writing the book, I’ve reached a place of clarity around my own sexual identity, so I dunno, expect some gay poems coming soon.
GM: What would you like readers who have experienced similar struggles to take away from your book?
OG: For readers who have read my book and see themselves, I hope they feel, in some way, held by the understanding that they’re not alone, that the process of life and sex and love is not an even or simple trajectory, that shame is not an organic emotion but is instead handed to us by the outside world, and that their memories, regardless of how mundane they seem, are deeply valuable and worthy of being shared.
Find out more about Olivia Gatwood on her website: https://www.oliviagatwood.com
