In Theory, We Are All Human
Not a simple thing, no. Not to be taken lightly. To be
understood, and I do, that is, get the theory of you:
integral of human possibilities. The theory of your body
as a familiar machine, like mine, like something that
hums while it works a skin together where there had
been a rip before. The theory of skin, of its color
and discolor. The theory of your blood and bones,
like mine; your eyes and lashes, like mine; your nose;
your mouth, full of ocean, like mine. The theory
of freedom, which I take to be a naked feather,
dancing, almost like a hammock, back and forth, back
and forth in the passing wind. The theory of God
as asymptote and the theory of love as limit, the two,
tied together inside my head by a math problem.
The theory of law as inequality instead of equation.
The theory of a wedding dress and the theory of
a wedding dress on fire. The theory of binding breasts
like pages of a book needing to be read. The theory
of birth as death sentence. The theory of life as illness.
The theory of male and the theory of female and
the theory of neither and yet, still, this body, like mine,
graphed on so many dimensions. The theory of choice,
like reaching for an apple instead of an orange. The theory
of sin, like reaching for an apple. The theory of ribs
as prison bars. The theory of homelessness among
family. The theory of children who claim you, likewise,
as a blessing. The theory of your smile. The theory
of a rainbow after the storm, like the gift of a perfect
bridge over troubled waters. The theory of your hand
touching mine, incidentally, in the closet of a single
moment. The theory that one of us, in that moment
did not exist in our right mind. The theory of mind as
illness. The theory of choice, again, but for which of us
and what between? The theory of sex and sacred and
the hard, hard practice. The theory of you. The theory
of me. The theory of a good person and the truth of
a bad, though, in theory, I cannot say who or
won’t.
from Telepathologies (Saturnalia Books, 2017)
If you’re not familiar with Cortney Lamar Charleston’s poetry, well, here it is. One of the reasons I read poetry — as I’ve probably mentioned — is because there’s an extraordinary joy and sense of grace and gratitude in seeing a mind at the hard work of witnessing, problem-solving, critiquing, and shaping the world around them. I love the way that kind of work manifests itself. And I love the way, while reading Cortney Lamar Charleston’s work, one gets a sense of a mind so smart and so willing to challenge itself with the myriad nuances of being alive. This poem is a perfect example of that, and is the final poem of Charleston’s remarkable book, Telepathologies.
It’s hard to know where to start with a poem that covers so much ground as this one, and excites and informs and interrogates and questions on so many levels. And it’d be impossible to say all one could say in the short space we have here. But all that is to say — this poem astounds me on so many levels. I think, first, it astounds me in what it attempts to tackle — that age-old, often tossed-around notion that we are all human. Which is true — as Charleston writes — in theory, but is so often used today as a barrier to further discussion, as an endpoint to discussion rather than an entryway into it.
The second thing I love about this poem is that Charleston tackles such a question with a poem of repetitive accumulation. Accumulation of syntax, of ideas, of line after line after line, each one filled with a kind of rigorous witnessing of the world. It’s a style that makes him one of my favorite poets. You notice it in his poem “How Do You Forgive,” or another one, “How Do You Raise a Black Child,” which has these ending lines:
With a little elbow
grease and some duct tape. Sweating bullets. On a short leash.
Away from the big boys on the block. Away from the boys in blue.
Without the frill of innocence. From the dead, again. Like a flag.
There’s a gorgeous so-much-ness to Charleston’s poetry that honors a poem’s inherent structure and space as a way to explore and criticize and evaluate. I find myself stopping so often in today’s poem to chew and awe and wonder. I mean, just look at lines like these:
The theory of God
as asymptote and the theory of love as limit, the two,
tied together inside my head by a math problem.
These lines alone, in such a short space, explore the ideas of limits and limitlessness, the forever-approaching, the never-coming-close. And those are just three lines of this poem, a poem that offers complexity after complexity as a way of making its reader see that the world cannot simply be reduced to a lack of complexity, to a simple truth, as an excuse for what the world so often is now: harmful, unjust, ignorant, petulant, and powerful.
That refusal to reduce is what makes this poem so special. When Charleston writes: “the theory of you: / integral of human possibilities,” there is a kind of opening for a critique that is so immensely powerful. To be integral — in a non-mathematical sense — is to be essential. Which is a lovely, hopeful idea when one considers all of humanity. But an integral in more mathematical terms is a kind of generalization, almost. Not necessarily a reduction, but not a specific honoring of each summed-up part. And so, it seems Charleston is saying right at the onset: this poem is here to accumulate specifics, to make sure you really know what you’re saying. Yes, this poem seems to say, we are all human, but only if you acknowledge the complexity of saying such a thing.
And within such a complex examination of the phrase we are all human, Charleston points out so much absurdity at the root of our lives, and at the root of injustice. Notice these lines, and their brilliance:
The theory of choice,
like reaching for an apple instead of an orange. The theory
of sin, like reaching for an apple.
Charleston begins with “choice,” and offers the choice between two seemingly simple, connected things: an apple and an orange. The poem then immediately replaces that “choice” that came before with “sin,” and connects the apple to the sin. It’s a brilliant example of the way a poem can do so much in such a short amount of time, and the way an argument can be made without even being explicit. These three lines offer a critique of religion, of dogma, of thoughtless reliance on long-approved norms. Later, the poem repeats the notion of choice:
The theory of choice, again, but for which of us
and what between?
And here the poem connects the criticism from before to a criticism from another lens, one of race and economics and access and equity. You see it echoed from the line even earlier that reads:
The theory of law as inequality instead of equation.
I have quoted just a handful of lines, and already you can see the thoughtful, wide-ranging critique that Charleston levels against the reduction and generalization of words and ideas and actions. But perhaps what I love the most about this poem is the way it honors the connections between things, the tangents, the internal web-spinnings of a mind at work. If you read this poem again, you’ll notice that it is a socioeconomic critique, yes. It’s also a philosophical critique. It’s also a criticism of the ways in which white people, in particular, deflect and defend their own inaction in the face of the specific evils of this world. It’s also, amidst all of this, a love poem, too:
The theory of your smile. The theory
of a rainbow after the storm, like the gift of a perfect
bridge over troubled waters. The theory of your hand
touching mine, incidentally, in the closet of a single
moment.
I find this striking and beautiful, because, in including these lines, the poem broadens itself, becomes luminous and generous and human in all the ways the poem is striving to show and defend and illuminate what “human” means. Which is different, and specific, and so much else, but which is also, perhaps universally, capable of holding and having space for so much. This poem holds and holds and holds that space. It accumulates itself into a critique just as it enacts the deep and varied complexity that one might associate with being alive in this world, and navigating it, and loving in it. What a beautiful example of creation.
The poem repeats the words “like mine” again and again and again. In doing so, I think it asks: how often have we, as readers, used such words to excuse our actions rather than interrogate them? What does it really mean for you to be like me? What stories do we tell ourselves that are different? The same? What theories do we hold on to? Discard? How do we love? Why? And why this we? Why not you? Why not I? When I read this poem, I see a model for what it means to look, really look, at something. There is only one “truth” in this poem — “the truth of / a bad” — but it is a truth that “cannot say who or / won’t.” Even then, at the end, the only real answer is the looking, harder and harder, closer and closer. I love this poem for the example of work it sets out for us.