History isn’t Destiny: Three words make a sentence.
I haven’t spent a morning with a book in months; there is no time for leisure pursuits. I reprimand myself for being still in body and empty of thought—motionlessness, a sin. I self-medicate with distractions “to turn my brain off,” though my preference in waking life is mindfulness. Who am I kidding? The voices ruminate as a tape on loop. I cannot escape myself and I cling to dissociative tendencies.
A brief meeting.
I met Catherine Gammon on Sunday, October 12, at City of Asylum for Books & Bistro, a gathering of local authors, poets, and independent publishers. There was promise of connection, which is why I attended, though these events usually serve to remind me how alone I can feel in this craft. I do not understand all the reasons I shy away from creative spaces, except to say I struggle to “know my place,” and contrary to popular opinion, I am quite frightened of recognition in real life. My talents have been squandered, so I have grown the belief I must keep them to myself while also harboring a desperation to be seen.
Gammon is nearly twice my age. I first saw her read at Bottom Feeder Books, on the evening of August 30, from What is your work? published by Almost Perfect Press. I was drawn to her immediately because of her whitened hair; I am intrigued with aging, less afraid, when I witness older women engaged in the arts. From where I sat, underneath a table, the small room crowded with bodies emitting smells of sweat and camaraderie, my knees tucked into my armpits, I closed my eyes and, when Gammon spoke, I imagined her presence as my future. Like her, I will grow older; like her, I hope I continue the work.
I approached Gammon at her table in City of Asylum, excited to see her. She had left Bottom Feeder before I was able to ask for a personal inscription in my copy of What is your work?. “I saw you a few weeks ago, at the Almost Perfect Press book release.”
Unsurprisingly, the sentiment she shared in response was familiar. I do these events but they are quite nerve-racking. I agreed. Many writers appreciate the opportunity to share and have a bent for privacy. I enjoy when I can be familiar to many and known by few. Writers reveal the stories we tell ourselves. It is not difficult to find those willing to relate when your words are clear and unavoidable.
I spoke with Gammon of the other books she had on display. On the back cover of Isabel Out of the Rain, published in 1991, was a portrait of Gammon. I asked her what it was like to have a book published so many years ago, and how she was connected to it now. What did it feel like to see herself as she was then, a young writer? The manuscript is on a floppy disk somewhere. I have thought about revisiting the work and making some edits. She inferred she would have no idea how to bring it back to life except to use a printed copy to create a file she could manipulate. Without hesitation, I offered that if she gave me a copy of the book, I would do it for her. “And I type fast.”
She commented nothing of her age and the 34-year old portrait, except to say she was in her 80s now. We exchanged information and she emailed me a few days later to thank me for the offer. She would consider it when she was ready to move forward with Isabel.
History isn’t destiny.
In the post-Thanksgiving lethargy, I was moved to read The Gunman & the Carnival while drinking coffee in bed. I lingered over Gammon’s handwriting and my first name written in proper, hurried cursive. “I hope you enjoy it,” signed, Catherine Gammon.
The coffee never stays warm enough because consuming words fills me up. I reheat in the microwave but the coffee doesn’t taste fresh, and my mouth is bitter with morning breath. The tongue is dirty, and I have a clear mind; the brain a sponge. On page 16, in A Vampire Story?, a single sentence stands out from the rest. “History isn’t destiny.”
Inspiration tickled my creativity but I told myself to keep reading. It is rare to find a book I have read that does not include underlines and highlights and notes in the margins. When I finished the editing certification program at University of Washington, Seattle, in 2018, the editor in me came alive and shadowed the writer in me, who could read for pure enjoyment. I read 11 more pages before scratching the itch. Extracting a single sentence from someone else’s work is a writing practice that helps me mine for deeper understanding of self.
I dialogued with my past,
it is true i feel relegated to past versions of myself, as if i owe her something. she wonders when i will grow wise to my own nature. she sees my tendency to hide and keep secrets—to live up and into another’s ideal silently, accepting the stories they weave and trying to fit herself into them. i am as beautiful as they say, but she never lets it go to my head.
“i couldn’t if i wanted it to,” i tell her.
she nods. “it’s your dad’s fault, and your mom’s, you don’t believe. and what if you could?”
“i know, i know, the blaming ages me. what of forgiveness?”
“you don’t have to give it to them, only to yourself.”
“what’s in it for you?”
“death.”
“i am not ready to die, though i think of it often. i picture what i might look like when i am stiff.”
“death is not rigid.”
“oh, you are going to tell me it is peaceful. you know that only makes me want it more.”
“i don’t blame you. the only way i will disappear is when you forgive yourself for not being perfect. otherwise i will haunt you forever.”
“and forever haunting is something i shouldn’t want? it’s nice to know i will always have company.”
and shared the piece with Gammon.
When the stream-of-consciousness quieted, I emailed Gammon. “I hope an unsolicited share isn’t unwelcome.”
I wondered if she might be interested in discussing writing over coffee or tea, before closing the note with my digital signature. I await response without expectation, only gratitude. Gammon’s discipline to the craft over the years has shown me a glimpse of who I might be when I “grow up,” and I don’t know anything about her journey. I don’t know anything of myself at 80, but I think I want to.
History only informs the future if we are unwilling to change now.
A Decorated Body
It is 1995, and I am 14 years old.
I’m sitting at the dining table with Cousin in one of my uncle’s homes. I whisper a confession.
When I grow up, I am going to be tattooed.
Cousin’s eyes became saucers. She excuses herself to report me to her mother, my aunt. Cousin is scared I am going to go to hell and needs to be soothed. I am scolded for saying things to confuse and hurt feelings; reprimanded for dreaming aloud about an adulthood of bodily integrity. The worst thing to be is a stumbling block, and I know better.
I am commanded to repent this sin against Cousin.
From the Tips of the Toes,
<br/>other told little sister a tale, and sketched the characters.
When unicorns jump into the ocean, they become narwhals; and if the narwhals surface, they are unicorns again.
On the right foot is Norbert the Narwhal, on the left, Nantucket the Unicorn; my “feet friends”. When I visit the beach, I dip the feet into the ocean, left-to-right-to-left-to-right, ritualizing the cycle from unicorn to narwhal. From life to life to the necessary and never-ending deaths.
This tattoo captures the innocence of childhood beliefs; a time of blind faith, when I may have trusted <br/>other to tell me the truth.
Around the Ankles,
Trying to be inconspicuous, at the base of a hot air balloon’s basket, a bat escapes into the night, surrounded by fireflies, with a stolen eyeball in its grip.
Up the Legs,
On the left calf, an Earth-bound astronaut in a hot air balloon made of the Universe, looks longingly toward a spaceship, attempting to beam him up. This tattoo expresses my relationship with <f/>other. He taught me to look toward the stars while limiting himself to black and white thinking. I tried showing him the way, from inside the spaceship, but he does not recognize how I have changed. And so <f/>other holds tight to his balloon, his beliefs, and dreams of adventure never far from reach.
Under my left knee is a black death moth in traditional styling; under my right, a colorful butterfly to contrast. Transformation unfolds my story. I am learning not to be scared of not being here any longer.
On my left thigh, a pinup-style tattoo; a portrait of my marriage.
I am dusting a bookshelf in a French maid costume with a white petticoat exposing a pink garter belt attached to black stockings. My hair is curled, and my lips a cherry red. I’m stuck in 1950; who wears high heels to clean? Hanging above my head is a framed portrait of my cat, Pixel; behind me is a round painting of pastel roses. I am smiling over my shoulder, toward my husband, who would be positioned on the couch with an Xbox controller in hand while I clean the house top to bottom, room to room. He’d eat snacks, drink whiskey, and lift his feet when I ran the vacuum. I am a perfectly obedient and appropriately sexy fantasy of a real wife. Displayed on the bookshelf, a Corona typewriter and a curated collection of books. Time and sun have blown out the letters and it is becoming difficult to read the titles. The HOLY BIBLE is in clear view, however, and stacked underneath is the book I am writing now 10 years later: I’M NOT WEARING ANY PANTS.
On my right calf, a grayscale garden skull made of flowers and leaves, with white accents, covers up the first hot air balloon tattoo. The first balloon was drawn by my ex-husband but he “hated looking at [the artist’s translation of his design]”.
When he complained, all I heard, that he could never understand, was “your calf is ugly, erase it”.
Expert eyes can make out the ghost balloon. Absence haunts.
Below the skull, a scene: three bats; one plucks an eyeball from a Mason jar, and two others approach in the distance. They fly across a night sky filled with fireflies who leave a glowing trail, a message, on the base of the ankle: “following intuition”. This is how I move forward, one step at a time. I do not require the eyes to see.
Beside the right knee, above the skull, is a ruby gem in the shape of a heart with a scripted bye. July birthdays; a farewell to friendship.
Watching from my right thigh, facing ahead and rich with color, an ornately framed portrait of an ambiguous figure sharing eyes and bending gender. A woman with her hair piled atop her head presents her femininity forward while a bearded man stares back at me, beckoning my masculinity. I mirror him and reflect her; we are one in the same. Who do you see when you see me?
A dove lands on my right hip with a twig in its grip, signaling peace and new growth.
and Up the Arms,
On the left wrist I am adorned with five hash marks. At once, a celebration and sentence, of five years of marriage.
Facing the five is the Phoenix rising from the ashes, smoke billowing toward the armpit. I do not look away from the messy parts and missteps. I embrace this life-death-life cycle because I want to change; because I want to change I embrace this life-death-life cycle.
I wear my heart on my (left) sleeve to memorialize my relationship with <m/>other; a yellow rose with red-tipped petals and faded green leaves, plucked from a bouquet. Forget-me-nots (the flower of my birth state) hug the rose. Black-lined geometric shapes and dew drops are layered atop the flowers, with paint splatters of blue, purple, red and yellow framing the chaotic pattern.
I color outside of the lines and she stays in. I openly express [to her], I do not want to hide as she hides from herself. When we are alone, I believe she can hear me and we sing in harmony. She is where I grew in creation, yet she cannot believe her own creativity. Am I not as stunning as you are beautiful, <m/>other?
On the right wrist, aunt Teresa’s script of Love, written inside the last birthday card I’ll ever receive from her. She has been my ancestral angel; an anchor to blood across time. I find her inside my grief. In death, she is patient with me, forgiving, and she is always with me. And so, in life, I can be patient with me, forgiving, and i /\m always with me. We must die to know i /\m.
Under Love, rests a pencil, a sharpener with shavings, and a Pink Pearl eraser. I write because I must. Beside the writing tools is a reminder to “be brave with your words”, and a rose compass without directional points—a perspective on presence. Wherever i /\m is where I’m meant to be. Where I am, is where i /\m is found.
Another five in morse code marking 10 years of marriage beside my right elbow pit.
The most popular tattoo is Pixel, my pixelated cat portrait, on my right bicep. She glares, and dares you to gettooclose.
Resting the right fist under the chin, the forearm exposes a request for a date to satiate with breakfast foods. Strawberries, blueberries and pineapple spill from a plate of syrupy pancakes stacked high, topped with a runny egg (the yoke often confused for butter), and stabbed with a fork. A knife hovers nearby, along with a syrup bottle branded BUY, a coffee cup identifying ME, and BRUNCH under the fruit. This tattoo inspires an activity.
I make eyes with someone. I tuck fist into chin, point to breakfast with left index finger, point to mouth, point back to tattoo and then point to person. It requires the skill of reading the eyes, which few have developed.
(I never use it. Turns out, I don’t care as much about dating as I thought I did.)
On the back of my right arm is a space- and Wizard-of-Oz-themed piece. There’s no place like home, but home isn’t Earth; “... my treasures are laid up, somewhere beyond the blue.”
Down the Head,
Behind the right ear, my handwriting; a word: “secrets”. Behind the left: “lies”.
Strangers tell me secrets and lovers tell me lies. The signal of a broken intimacy meter; the unfamiliar faces safer than the recognizable voices. Billy Joel was correct. I can ask for the truth but I’ll never believe you.
On the back of the neck, an eye with intricate detail and pops of color representing seven unblocked chakras. Creative flow opens me to consider new ideas.
I couldn’t locate a photo of me at age 14.
“wait ‘til you see her from the back-back-back-back-back…”
Across the Back,
In between my shoulder blades, my second tattoo is covered by an apple. Inside the apple, a delicate edg in my own penmanship hides. Underneath the apple, my married initials: eve. Divorce led me back to edg, but I will leave eve be. She has had enough. Nothing is her fault.
Circling the apple were once two sparrows, red and blue. The red remains the same but the blue has transformed into a crow–a callback to tattoo number one… “for sorrow, two for joy…”
The first tattoo was always going to be a band tattoo. The shooting star from Counting Crows’ second album Recovering the Satellites hovered above my jeans for 21 years before it was covered up with a nest holding three blue eggs–symbolic of the three ghosts in my work. A snake is coiled at the nest’s base, uninterested in consuming the unborn, and moves instead into the center of the back, defined by an upside-down green glowing triangle representing eternal love from the inside-out.
Toward the Heart,
In the center of the chest, between the breasts, an anatomical heart in soft black with an eyeball. Flowers grow from the vessels. When I see with the heart, I bloom.
The only husband I’ll ever have, Matthew, in script under the left breast, showcases his deletion from my life. Underneath his name are seven red dots. “In the margin”—on my ribs—is the hard copy editorial direction “stet”, a Latin word meaning “let it stand”. Editors use this markup when the original text should be kept and the suggested change, ignored. (I interpret my naked skin as original and the suggested change as Matthew, meaning pretend I didn’t get this tattoo.)
A stick ‘n’ poke honors a deep and instant friendship; a halved grapefruit is positioned on the lower abdomen, to the left of the belly button. Yonic and symbolic, she and I make life worth the squeeze.
Resting across the right cage of ribs, a rhinoceros skeleton is encircled by forget-me-nots. Did you know, despite the rhinoceros’ tough-looking exterior, they endure sensitive skin? Same.
& Everywhere in Between.
The filler that hugs the body and amplifies the curves, a floral carpet amid a black spiral that bees confuse for reality. From the shins to the backs of the thighs, up the left glute and blooming around the spine, a garden of wild flowers; chrysanthemums, zinnias, blue bonnets, and forget-me-nots. Bury me green, naked and three feet deep, return me to the wild so flowers can grow through the bones.
The black spiral represents illusion. You see me with eyes not mine and do not know me. The absence of tattoo twirls my skin and I give in to the unknown; the void of “self”.
Nothing matters.
I knew myself well at 14.
My family pressed the importance of walking the talk—living by the words you speak—because words create.
I might’ve said I’m sorry to my cousin in 1995, but I never repented of my tattoo desires. (I have, however, repented many apologies I didn’t mean.) I am far more concerned with the ways in which I have sinned against myself because I was duped into thinking anyone else’s beliefs trump my own.
At 44 years old, I am proud to live the truths of this decorated body; and I am strong enough to die by them, like the Jesus character in my family’s bible.
The truth is not a stumbling block, unless a lie has been constructed arou [you] nd.
I have been tattooed by many artists. There are two women I see often because of the level of trust and safety developed between us, while I am under the needle. They have seen me through many iterations of self; Joanne Slorach of The Hive Tattoo in Portland, Oregon, and Hannah Aitchison of The Curiosity Shop in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Rewriting Family in Embroidered Vintage Fashion
I was introduced to Leslie Benigni at the 2024 VegFest, drawn into her booth by her embroidered artistry and quirky vintage fashion. We chatted briefly and I took a commission slip promising to reach out.
Seven months later, we met for coffee to discuss a collaboration.
Artist Self-Portrait, Leslie Benigni
Childhood, Grandmacore & Mastering Craft
Benigni has been a working artist since she was 13-years old. She started selling jewelry on Etsy and at local markets and craft fairs, wherever her parents would drive her. She expanded to vintage reselling and expressing herself through fashion led to embroidery.
One of the limiting factors of Benigni’s childhood is the closet control. What she wore was picked out for her, and her stylistic choices were judged harshly because outfits needed to match. She didn’t grow up rich, so her style was eclectic. “You get creative which develops resourcefulness and adaptability,” Benigni posits. In true artist rebellion, she believed she had the materials she needed, and the sewing skills, to transform her wardrobe into a closet of trends, “as seen in top of line catalogs like JCPenney.”
It was Benigni’s grandma who taught her how to embroider and sew in her childhood. I asked if she embroidered doilies and we shared a laugh. “It's funny you say that because the first thing she didn't want me to try on was her good handkerchiefs and linens. She gave me old washcloths and dishrags.”
Benigni’s desire for mastery was born. “Craft is an interesting word; it has specific nuance and historical importance. I am honing my craft is different than when you say I craft–it sounds stereotypical of a crafter, someone with a hobby. I’m serious about mastering a craft.”
She was 17-years old when Tumblr was at its peak. Benigni describes a pastel trendsetting wave of goth and prom, futuristic punk, emerging; Arctic Monkeys meets the Pinterest-popular rose-embroidered shorts. Shorts she decided to make herself.
Her shorts were perceived as “kind of grandma-ish”, their threaded essence reminded many of their moms, aunts and grandmas. Benigni wasn’t deterred, she loved the connection and leaned into Grandmacore. “It made me feel closer to my grandma who was the shining light in my childhood. [She] raised me for a good chunk of my life, and [she was] who I always went to for inspiration during difficult family times.”
The mention of difficult times revealed Benigni and I are both presently estranged from our families. She was pursuing a Creative Writing degree when she began the process of disconnection. “It was beautiful; a transformatory period. Up to that point, my writing was conventional and formulaic. My brain wanted to subvert all of it.”
Classically trained in both poetry and fiction, she began experimenting with form, replicating her thoughts and memories in a stream of consciousness. She penned a hybrid story about the disintegration of a relationship between two people. One person's memory and perception of the relationship was imposed upon by the other, controlling the dynamic.
“I feel like you just described my brother,” I related to Benigni.
front of my dad’s jean jacket, reclaimed with my symbolism in Benigni’s style
Rewriting Family Begins with Repair
Estrangement has allowed both of us to rewrite our lived experiences and save ourselves. The true meaning of family for us can be a nightmare of personal distortion. The grief and relief in the separation is a wave. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, Benigni’s grandmother fell down the stairs and broke a leg, forcing her to live with Benigni’s aunt and uncle, who Benigni was not speaking to. “I still wanted to communicate with [my grandmother]. She deserved to hear I love her and think about her often. We would send each other letters ... [I told her] I don't expect you to understand why I've chosen this path. It’s not a reflection of how you raised me or how I feel about you. I just can't exist within this dynamic anymore. She was very understanding, which was helpful, because she was aware [of what happened].”
It is an act of healing, and can be a practice in forgiveness, to be met with understanding when you have had adverse childhood experiences. Those who can hold the space are angels. Benigni’s grandmother passed June 2022.
Those who cannot imagine being estranged, do not accept I can miss my family and be unmoved to pursue a relationship with them. Giving in to the shame for being a “bad daughter” is depressing. Benigni and I agree you can’t do anything differently until you try.
back of my dad’s jean jacket, reclaimed with my symbolism in Benigni’s style
The Collaborative Effect of Artistry
A favorite piece of clothing I have worn since high school, is a 1970s The Flick Button Up Denim Jacket; it was my dad’s when he was a teenager in Texas. I receive compliments when I wear it from people of all ages; it’s been stylistically referred to as cyber punk. Between sips of coffee and conversation, Benigni would hold up my dad’s jacket to inspect and admire it. “I'm intrigued by this shape and the brand.”
The jacket has a sewn vented back, pleats and a tail. It’s oversized and worn; the denim is smooth. Being estranged from my dad, the jacket and I have developed an equal strangeness; it becomes more tattered with every wear as the elbow holes and ripped seams catch on door handles and chairs. It distresses me for it to become distressed and I act as if I couldn't. care. less.
Benigni directs my thoughts to the nine symbols that appear in Memoirtistry and how to express them. As we collaborate, we decide to treat the jacket as my skin and cover it with embroidered “tattoos”.
The Ghosts, my three inner children aged 8, 12 & 20
The Eyes of The Ghosts, hidden inside The Pussy (right sleeve)
The Eyes of The Ghosts, hidden inside The Pussy (right sleeve)
The Eyes of The Ghosts, hidden inside The Pussy (with teeth, because I bite). The Alien (green) and The Demon (red) wait for them to emerge.
So what’s next for Leslie Benigni?
“It's kind of morbid to say, but when I try to think ahead to the future ... I didn't see myself getting this far. It's inconceivable; I'm naively very open to whatever happens.”
Benigni sold her wares in New York City at the Grand Bazaar in March, which she feels is a jumping off point for bigger things. But her interests span mediums, from avant garde fashion to sculpture and visual art. She can see herself curating gallery experiences with clothing and textiles, creatively directing, and also partnering with brands she loves, like Bode.
Becoming Our Own Parents & Finding Community
“Meeting another person who has defected ... it’s a harder way. Even though I am not conscious of it as I make things, family is interwoven in all I do. So the goal is to make my younger self proud.”
Without a safety net of family, Benigni and I agree we’ve worked hard to cultivate deeper relationships so we can accept support when it is offered. “Community is a word I've been relying on,” she tells me, “I think there needs to be a better sense of community care, especially for kids; it takes a village. It’s important to grow up with a network of people beyond family.”
It takes a village the estranged are skilled in building; forced resilience will do that. Wearing a Benigni gives me an opportunity to make peace in estrangement. I’m clothed in understanding and I’m not only fashionable, I’m styled in art therapy by a friend in my community. My inner children are delighted.