Minnie Mouse Polka Dot Bow by CherbearCreative Shirt

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“I’m a little old now to be an enfant terrible,” says Virginie Despentes. Nonetheless, it’s a label she’s worn proudly since her brilliant, incendiary manifesto, King Kong Theory, was published in France in 2006, when Despentes was 37. “In France, we like conflict, and I’m not exactly an easy character.” King Kong Theory minced no words and wasted no time from the Minnie Mouse Polka Dot Bow by CherbearCreative Shirt and I love this moment the needle dropped on page one:I want to be crystal clear: I’m not here to make excuses, I’m not here to bitch. I wouldn’t swap places with anyone because being Virginie Despentes seems to me a more interesting gig than anything else out there. I think it’s amazing that there are also women out there who love to seduce, who know how to turn someone on, women determined to get hitched, women who smell of sex, and others who smell of cakes freshly baked for their kids’ after-school snacks. Awesome that there are women who are very gentle, others who are comfortable in their skin, young women, pretty women, women who are kittenish and radiant. Honestly, I’m really happy for all those women who’re resigned to the way the world works…. It just so happens that I’m not one of them.”What followed became an international feminist classic—one that made her infamous in her native country—though King Kong Theory has been out of print in the US since 2010 until now, as a new translation is published along with the third and final volume of her Vernon Subutex trilogy. Those latter books tell an entirely different, panoramic story, with a sprawling cast of characters, centered around a middle-aged record store owner on the decline amidst a Paris consumed by terrorist attacks and dominated by right-wing politics.You’ve published nine books since the somewhat notorious Baise-Moi in 1993, but here in the States you’re still mostly unformed in people’s minds. Are you still this divisive, kind of bomb-throwing figure in France? Are people still coming at your work with preconceived ideas about you?I’m still getting some conflict here, but I think they’ve gotten used to me. I’ve become part of the landscape—some people hate it, some people like it, but I’m part of the landscape.I’ve seen the title variously translated as Fuck Me, Rape Me…It’s really Fuck Me. I took it from The Exorcist, the young girl. I love that movie.Your books seem very distinctly of a time and place. How much are we missing if we don’t live, or haven’t lived, in Paris, or aren’t familiar with the culture of the moment in France?King Kong Theory was actually written out of my immersion in American theory and American feminism, American authors—Annie Sprinkle, Carol Queen; all the process feminists that helped me and interested me. In France during the 90s, it was very difficult to get those American writers, because they weren’t translated; even writers like Judith Butler were translated very late in Europe. But some of us were very interested in pornography, prostitution, queer theory, lesbian culture, and I wanted to bring some of that American theory to France and to Europe. Vernon Subutex is very different—it’s a portrait of Paris about five years ago, but it has something in common with American culture in that it’s about punk culture and rock n’ roll culture, and a lot of that is coming from America. But it’s really about how the extreme right is rising in France—how things that were unacceptable ten years ago are becoming common. And that’s different from America—but there are, of course, some parallels.Is it odd to have King Kong Theory republished now? Is it still a representation of your thinking and feeling now, or is it a period piece for you?Here in Europe—and especially in Spain and South America—it’s my “hit.” It’s an old work, but I’ve never spent one year not talking about King Kong Theory, and now with feminist subjects rising again after #MeToo, I never stop talking about King Kong Theory. I didn’t expect it to be so important to my life when I wrote it—but I like it.It’s a very angry book—or maybe it’s just a very honest book? Maybe it’s just easy for people to classify and dismiss it by calling it angry, as opposed to saying it’s a very powerful or gripping book. But it’s intense.Yeah—you get the point. It’s not angry. I just read Valerie Solanas’ biography—Valerie Solanas was angry. This book isn’t angry—it’s straight to the point. It’s sincere. And I think that nowadays, many woman have gone through the process of talking about how they handled such things.To be clear: When you say “such things,” you’re talking about being raped. You write in the book about that, and about your reaction to it which, at the time, seemed unusual, or provocative: While the traditional feminist response to that, as you’ve noted, is to frame it in terms of being violated, being changed forever, irrevocably traumatized, you elected to view the experience within the prism of war, or battle—and you seemed determined, above all, to move on.So many people have gone through the process of being raped, and you can deal with it in many ways—or you can choose not to deal with it. I dealt with it. I was 17 when I was raped, and I wasn’t ready to just give up my life and die psychologically. I put every energy I had into going through the process of dealing with it. But I didn’t write the book until nearly 20 years later. At the time I wrote it, talking about your rape was a strange idea. Nowadays, things have changed. I also wasn’t the only one writing about such things—but there’s been a big explosion since then.Why King Kong?I had just seen the Peter Jackson movie when I wrote the book. We always suppose that King Kong is a male character, and I thought it could be more a queer character—or a mother figure. I suppose also I was thinking about the Guerilla Girls—the American feminists doing actions at museums with gorilla masks on their heads. It’s a lot about femininity, and about allowing different forms of femininity—I don’t feel masculine, but I don’t feel like a very feminine girl either. I feel a different kind of femininity.Back to Vernon Subutex: In a career devoted to writing from a pointedly feminist or woman-centric perspective, what possessed you to write a three-book series with a middle-aged white man in crisis as the central character?First of all, because it’s about rock, punk rock [NB: There’s a wealth of Spotify playlists worth exploring—both official and otherwise—centered around Vernon Subutex] and I thought the character had to be a white male, because this is what rock is about. And second, I thought this book was a good place to change my gender. I did it without thinking a lot about it—but then I published it and I soon thought it was a brilliant idea, because I found that the readers and the critics were more tender with a male character. When women do exactly the same things as Vernon Subutex, they’re much more subject to judgmental perspective and analysis. When it’s a guy, everything is fine—he can do whatever he wants, no? [Despentes laughs, and takes another drag on her cigarette.]Without giving away too much, I think we can say that the three Subutex books have everything from a dead rock star, a secret lost videotape, and a cast of dozens—from screenwriters and private detectives and wannabe revolutionaries to young students and cokehead dilettantes—all of them in a kind of middle age decline as they revolve loosely around Vernon as his life starts to swirl down the drain. They hatch various plots, fashion alternate ways of living; they cling to a certain utopian ideal even as their realities become more and more desperate and sordid. I was attracted to it first as High Fidelity as written by JG Ballard or something, but later it seemed more like Dickens or Zola as rendered by Bukowski. But what’s the origin story?It’s nice to hear those references—I’ve certainly read all of them. And I loved High Fidelity—that book was a big stepstone for people like me. I’m 51, and when I wrote the book I was 45, and that’s a time of life when you understand that while things are fine, they are going to be over soon—and going through that age is an experience that you have to live through to know. I was living in Spain then, and when I came back to France, I was amazed at how in Paris, everybody was depressed—and it’s a book about that, also. Even really privileged people were really depressed, and that really struck me, and I tried to understand what was eating us alive—why did we all feel this bad, this sad?Can you brood a bit about Vernon the man? I mean, why him—and what purpose did he serve you as a writer?There are two sides for me: He is the nice white guy; he’s very childish, which I kind of like in my mates. But you know that it’s not a good time for him. What I liked about Vernon as I was writing about him is that he’s not judgmental. He confronts a lot of situations and a lot of people, and he’s not an idiot—he sees things—but he’s never judgmental. Maybe this is what I like about my own rock background: You don’t hide truth; you witness things, and you’re gathered around very strange people who are sometimes unable to fit in other places, but you learn not to be judgmental. Some other characters in the book are driven by anger or anxiety, and it wasn’t so nice for me to spend time with them, but when I was with Vernon, it was a nice place to be.About this rock background: You once described your work as “really just rap and punk applied in a literary form.” How did music inform your writing, or your world, so much? I saw Nina Hagen on the television when I was 13, and from there The Clash, Joy Division…. it opened a whole new world to me, one that was hugely important. It was life-changing, and I feel a big deal of gratitude for this experience, because from then to my early 20s I had a very intense and happy and full experience of life—much better than going to university or being a square person—and I enjoyed it fully. I mean, you’ll never be 20 again—but it’s not a really good preparation for real life. [Despente laughs] When I discovered the publishing world in France at 25, I wasn’t fully prepared for many things.Such as?You’re not prepared for a lot of hypocrisy; you don’t learn to negotiate with normal people. In the punk world there were no adults, so there’s no judgements. You have a lot of ethical positions you have to give up if you want to function with normal people. And you expect to have a lot of fun when you’re into punk rock—and then you understand that normal people do not expect to have the same amount of fun; fun is not their priority. [More laughter, as Despentes lights another cigarette]I think things have changed for young people now—they don’t have that secret world that we used to have. I also read a lot, I learned a lot politically. There was a romantic side to it; there was a community. Nobody cared about us, because at the time nobody understood that there was money to be made from us, and that was a great privilege: We could do what we wanted. But then Nirvana happened, and everything changed.Back to Vernon: He seems to have kind of taken his hands off the steering wheel of life—I don’t think we’re giving much away to say that he becomes homeless and exists on the fringes of society—yet somehow his passivity leads people begin ascribing all kinds of things to him that may be true, may not be true—he becomes almost an object of devotion, a saintly figure.I think a lot of us take our hands off the steering wheel now and again. We don’t know how to handle our life, and reality in general—a lot of us just say, Okay, let’s see what comes next, and just go with the flow because we feel we can’t drive the car, can’t drive the bus. Many things happen that are very surprising to us, and we don’t know how to react without being passive. And a lot of people are anxious to build prophets, and there’s nothing fair about that. Why him? Maybe because he’s very passive, yes, and it allows people to project things upon him. He doesn’t do anything to deserve it; it’s not fair. But it’s something I’m interested in: I meet a lot of famous people, and sometimes you think: Yeah, you’re a star. But most of the time you think: This just fell on you somehow. And it falls on Vernon. And I don’t know—maybe Jesus Christ wasn’t someone so special, who knows? Maybe Jesus Christ was just a guy—nice guy, but… [We both erupt in laughter]And again let’s not give away the ending, but maybe we can say that it’s… shocking? Beautiful, tragic, dark? And there’s a kind of epilogue, a flash forward and a flash back from way into the future that’s grim and dystopian—but there’s a notion, hinted at, that rock n’ roll may just save the world? Maybe?I’m very pessimistic about the difficult times we’re going through, but at the same time there’s something very optimistic about myself. And I think the end of the book gets at that: I wish that something good could happen, but I’m not sure. But you have to understand that the books were written at the time of different terrorist attacks in Paris, and you can tell; you can feel it: There was this sense that we could die tomorrow without a fight. But at the same time, you think, yeah: Maybe something could survive—maybe music. Music is not only a big business; it’s a high form of poetry. I don’t know what to believe in; I’m very divided between sheer desperation and some kind of optimism. I wish I could imagine a different way of living that would succeed in a different kind of culture, but at the same time, I don’t believe in it. I want us as humans to be able to change things, but I’m not sure we can. It’s my contradiction.What are you working on now?I’m writing a novel, and I’m working a lot with a guy who’s adapting Vernon Subutex as a comic. It’s a cool process, and I’m having a lot of fun.There was a lot of fuss in the literary world when you were appointed to the prestigious Goncourt Academy, which decides the Goncourt Prize, five years ago—lots of headlines about the outsider joining the establishment and that sort of thing. But in January, you made headlines for resigning your post—why?I loved to do it, but it was too much work. I didn’t want to do it my whole life. I learned a lot, but you have to read more than 100 books a year, and if you want to do it correctly you really don’t read anything else. There was one summer when I was reading James Baldwin, and I had to stop the book, and I just thought: I’m going to quit the Goncourt. It’s interesting, but it’s not paid; I’m fed up. I want to read what I want to read.

Minnie Mouse Polka Dot Bow by CherbearCreative Shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt

My great-grandmother, Vi taqwšəblu Hilbert, was eighty-three years old when she commissioned the Minnie Mouse Polka Dot Bow by CherbearCreative Shirt and I love this symphony that she titled The Healing Heart of the First People. Back then the news was all about fighting George W. Bush’s war on terror. She saw beyond the fear to a divided country, the wars across the ocean, and the violent injustices in her own streets. She believed so deeply in our people’s stories, the teachings inherent within them. She knew that no one would listen to an old Indian woman, that she would have to reach them another way. Somehow she arrived on what she called highbrow music, symphonies. This came as a shock to us, for my great-grandmother hadn’t grown up with this kind of stuff. She loved square dancing and Elvis. But she believed this was the way, that if people could hear our beliefs through song, it could heal this wound with music.She called a famous composer. “I need you to commission a symphony,” she demanded, “and perform it at Benaroya Hall.” The composer turned her down. But weeks after the call he couldn’t get this eighty-three-year-old Indian woman’s voice out of his head. He called her back, and together they collaborated on a symphony, the first to ever include Coast Salish spirit songs and the traditional language.In our longhouse ceremonies, we believe songs hold a spiritual power. There are certain songs for prayer, for healing. My great-grandmother had a cassette tape. On it were recordings of two spirit songs, one belonging to a beloved cousin, the other Chief Seattle’s thunder spirit song. She entrusted the tape to the composer, instructing him to listen, but not to share them. She wanted the songs to guide him as he wrote the symphony. She hoped that if the healing power of these spirit songs could somehow take shape in the symphony, people might understand how we could be better. She was hoping for medicine, for a world that could change.***On a hot summer day in 2020 I stood in a protest, in the collective grief and anger that had errupted in the wake of the murder of George Floyd. We yelled, we chanted, we demanded justice. I raised my cardboard sign that read in bold letters “Indigenous Solidarity with Black Lives Matter.” This didn’t feel like enough, would never feel like enough.Weeks of flashbangs and tear gas went by. Weeks of protesters being arrested and assaulted, even run over, and finally the people took the precinct. With the police gone, the organizers secured six Seattle city blocks, declaring it the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone. There were medical tents and tables of free books on political education. People brought crates of food to share, while others held demonstrations. My partner and I walked the streets of a free Seattle, watching the films being projected onto buildings, seeing murals painted over boarded-up windows. There were large plastic bottles of hand sanitizer duct-taped to telephone poles. It seemed as though the people had created a utopia. Until it didn’t. We turned a corner to find the park in the center of the autonomous zone in full-blown festival mode. Kids in droves wielded glow sticks. It looked like Coachella. It looked like Burning Man. People were drunk with selfie sticks, wearing angel wings and carrying Hula-Hoops. Is this what change looked like?But in the middle of the intersection, we found a huge gathering of Coast Salish people. I watched as men laid out large cedar boughs in a circle. Then women carried burning bundles. The cedar smoke wafted over the crowd, the tents, the abandoned precinct. They were sharing their medicine.“Before we begin here today,” the man with the mic yelled, “I want to honor our elder, Vi taqwšəblu Hilbert. It’s important we remember her, here on her land for the work she did for the Coast Salish People.” The man spoke in Lushootseed and in English. He introduced a group of Coast Salish singers. They made a half-moon around the burning cedar and hit their drums hard.I closed my eyes and envisioned my great-grandmother as she stood on stage at Benaroya Hall fourteen years ago. I saw the painted drum, heard its heartbeat as it boomed like thunder, as it called out for change. I hadn’t heard my great-grandmother’s name, her Skagit name, the name we shared spoken into a microphone, in a very long time. The symphony had been her last project. But right up until the end she went to gatherings, to speaking events, events like this. I had seen her small and frail but still so powerful when she spoke. I thought of her here today in this crowd. Even in the threat of this pandemic, she would have been here.Throughout this pandemic I have returned to the books my great-grandmother made, the ones that house our language and our stories. Some days are spent crying, curled in the crook of my partner’s lap as the cats and dog wander the house, charged with an animal anxiety. Some days I make salmon and black coffee, simply to fill the house with the familiar aroma of my great-grandmother’s kitchen. We have climbed out onto the roof of my house and watched the sky change.I had good days and bad days. We made a game out of our once-a-month grocery shopping. We called it the Hunger Games. We called it the Soft Apocalypse as we waited in line outside Trader Joe’s, masks on and six feet apart from anyone but each other. We dressed up at night just to light all the candles in the house, eat the fanciest meal we can muster, and drink wine like we were in Paris. I had a panic attack in the middle of one of these nights, suddenly overwhelmed with worry about the elder I bought the smoked salmon from. “What if he gets Covid?”On election night, my partner and I sat barefoot on the floor, nervously checking our phones. We scrolled. We put them down. We anxiously picked them up again. We did this until I couldn’t take it anymore. “How is this even an option?” I held up my screen showing the closeness in the numbers. I was afraid as a Coast Salish woman, a female-bodied person, a queer person. I was afraid for the people still being murdered by police, for the elders still threatened in the face of this pandemic. I was afraid for how many times I might have to endure another aggression from a person who refused to wear a mask but clung to their MAGA cap like it was a prayer. Would I feel safe again? Would the world feel safe again?My partner picked up his guitar and strummed the opening chords of one of my favorite Ramones songs. I joined in off-key and giggling. By the time we reached the chorus, we were hysterical, barely able to get the lines out. We made it through the song only to roar with laughter and begin again. There was a power in the repetition. We let the song transport us.There is a belief in my Coast Salish culture that songs have the power to heal, that they can be medicine. My great-grandmother wanted to share that knowledge, she wanted to remind people to have compassion, she wanted to change things. I don’t know anything about symphonies or orchestras. I don’t know any spirit songs. But as we sang out loud until two in the morning on election night, we weren’t checking our phones anymore. We weren’t thinking about the president or the pandemic. We were laughing, lost in the music, lost in trying to get it right, lost in a brief moment of hope. We were singing, we were dancing. We were trying to heal.This essay was adapted from There’s a Revolution Outside My Love: Letters From a Crisis, which was edited by Tracy K. Smith and John Freeman and is on sale May 11.