Presenting Ordinary Thought as Philosophy
When Donna Nunn takes the podium at the Chicago Author’s Room of the Harold Washington Library, she prefaces the reading of her short autobiographical essay entitled “This Land is My Land” with an impromptu rendition of the song itself, somewhat modified: “As I was walking, I saw a sign that said, ‘No Trespassing.’ But I looked across the street and there was nothing. This land was made for you and me.” Her bastardization of one of the most beloved songs of American patriotism seems to embody the unwavering defiance of exclusivity held by the collection of writers in the room, sometimes gentle and sometimes aggressive.
They each attend free workshops offered in low-income neighborhoods across the city by the Neighborhood Writing Alliance (NWA) and, in doing so, they seize on alternate spaces for reflection and expression, looking “across the street,” as it were, when those spaces traditionally reserved for philosophical explorations are clearly marked “No Trespassing.” They don’t wait around for major literary journals like the Georgia Review or TriQuarterly to notice that they have something to say, either. They gather up their work into the NWA’s quarterly publication, the Journal of Ordinary Thought. Nunn is one of more than two dozen authors reading at tonight’s event and one of 85 featured in the latest issue of the journal, an issue that explores the question, “Where are you from?”
A good-humored woman in black leather pants serves as the event’s moderator. Her name is Jeanette Jordan and she refers to the NWA as her “writing family,” offers funny and observant one-liners between readings, and introduces her fellow writers as “philosophers,” saying, for instance, “Our next philosopher comes to us from Albany Park.” At one point, Jordan calls out for John J. Quirk and, when no one makes a move to come forward, she assumes that he’s fallen asleep, and says as much to a laughing crowd. It turns out that Quirk was merely waiting for her to address him properly, as a philosopher. They take the title seriously in this organization. Given its slogan—“Every person is a philosopher”—it seems only natural that the members of the NWA would feel that one’s very humanity is called into question when he or she is denied the opportunity to approach life and art philosophically.
What, then, is this thing we all need to possess in order to be human? What do we mean when we say philosophy? Do we mean reason? The thing other than opposable thumbs that separates us from non-human animals? When we hear “live and let live; that’s my philosophy,” is that philosophy? And if it’s true that we are all philosophers, then what, if anything, distinguishes the likes of Aristotle, Descartes, Locke, Kant, Hegel, and Kierkegaard from everybody else? Is it just that they were professional philosophers while we’re all amateurs? Does that make them more human than us?
By boldly presenting the “ordinary thought” of its journal as philosophy, and by introducing each of its contributors as philosophers, the NWA invites such questions, as well as a critical investigation of the philosophical underpinnings supporting each of its literary pieces. A gauntlet of sorts is laid down to the reader. We’re taking this seriously, so you damn well better take it seriously, too.
However serious the NWA may be about its mission, the ensemble reading is a fun, mostly casual affair filled with laughter and a few surprises. Jeanette Moton tells us that the homemade lye soap her mother made out of pork fat and other ingredients was “very good for tough stains, but not for bathing.” Marie G. Shelton explains that milk directly from a cow “is warm and tastes like grass.” CJ Martello teaches us how to say “sugar” in Italian (zucchero), and also how to swear using a “delightfully colored” Italian phrase (bruta putana). Barbara Banks reveals her unusual fascination with France. John J. Quirk shares a Champaign-Urbana saying—“There is no champagne served in Urbana and there is no urbanity in Champaign”—and warns us to watch out for wooden nickels. JP Marsch, Erin Moore, Donna Pecor, David Nekimken, Marita DeMarinis all offer poems that are at turns clever, funny, moving, and inspiring. Ron Yokley and Glenn Ford nearly turn their work into performance art pieces, the latter with bongo drum accompaniment. Jim Nowik, who sounds like an older, more gravelly Philip Seymour Hoffman, howls as impressively as any wolf could, twice. Leticia Jimenez explains briefly why, to her, this country is a “land of paradoxes.” And an unnamed woman with white hair and a white, crocheted shawl claps, whoops, and pumps her arm like a frat boy at a football game when a substitute reader tells us that an NWA poet named Larry Ambrose has recovered from a heart attack.
Does all of this add up to philosophy? Well, since even those who get paid to teach the subject in colleges and universities can’t agree on how to actually define the thing, I’m going to go with the ancient Greeks on this one. The word philosophy originally comes from two Greek words—philo, which means “loving,” and sophia, which means “wisdom.” So to be a philosopher means to love wisdom. When one considers the obstacles that members of the working class have to face in order to carve out their own rough trails to enlightenment, I don’t think there can be any doubt that the contributors of the Journal of Ordinary Thought love wisdom.
EVENT: ENSEMBLE READING BY THE CONTRIBUTORS OF THE JOURNAL OF ORDINARY THOUGHT | WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31, 2010 AT 6PM | HAROLD WASHINGTON LIBRARY | AN EVENT OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD WRITING ALLIANCE
