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A review by hilaryreadsbooks
Transit by Cameron Awkward-Rich
5.0
Awkward-Rich's words simultaneously smooth and sting; each ampersand is a way forward and a sudden, jolting stop. I love this theme of always being in transit, in transition—the idea that the fluidity and continual nature of gender as another take on motion when we "cross & recross the small terms of our own lives" ("Essay on the Theory of Motion"). And his questioning of a universal truth that we can move towards, an absolute of ourselves. After all, "isn't that what we all / want? / To not feel so / split? To carry an image of ourselves / inside ourselves & know exactly what we / mean / when we say *I— . I—.* / *I—?*" ("The Child Formerly Known As ___").
My god, the in-absoluteness of identity is something I've been pondering recently. "I" is of movement of grief from those before us into our souls—"being born of sorrow / that isn't [ours]" ("Theory of Motion (4): Another Middle-Class Black Kid Tries to Name It"). "I" is of loss of movement when we grow up into adults and the hardening of our souls feels congruent to pavements of splayed bodies ("Bridge"). "I" is of the loudness of whiteness that asks all others to move out of the way, privileged bodies in fur coats constantly reaching for more space ("Essay on Waiting in Line").
We move and are being moved. We are in transit, perhaps from a conscious decision of moving, but never without other passengers around us and someone else driving the train. And I think TRANSIT spells this out so cleanly in a way that breaks my heart because it makes a clear identity feel so tangible and unattainable at the same time.
My god, the in-absoluteness of identity is something I've been pondering recently. "I" is of movement of grief from those before us into our souls—"being born of sorrow / that isn't [ours]" ("Theory of Motion (4): Another Middle-Class Black Kid Tries to Name It"). "I" is of loss of movement when we grow up into adults and the hardening of our souls feels congruent to pavements of splayed bodies ("Bridge"). "I" is of the loudness of whiteness that asks all others to move out of the way, privileged bodies in fur coats constantly reaching for more space ("Essay on Waiting in Line").
We move and are being moved. We are in transit, perhaps from a conscious decision of moving, but never without other passengers around us and someone else driving the train. And I think TRANSIT spells this out so cleanly in a way that breaks my heart because it makes a clear identity feel so tangible and unattainable at the same time.