Poets.ca

Review--The League of Canadian Poets

The Chick at the Back of the Church

by Billie Livingston

Reviewed by Deborah Foulks

The Chick at the Back of the Church is the first volume of poetry by Billie Livingston, author of the novel "Going Down Swinging." There are many thematic similarities between the two, which is not surprising, as Ms. Livingston has stated that sections of this volume formed the spine of her novel. Both explore the struggle of women who through lack of opportunity, education, or in reaction to a tragedy, are cast adrift. They then become easy prey to forces or addictions that throw them, often along with their children, into the welfare maw, from which they seem in the perpetual process of trying to escape. ". . . Just because/ we’re stuck in a sewer/ doesn’t mean we’re rats/. . . – a social worker announces her visit;/ evaluation of my situation/ custody/ . . . Nother great escape/ pack/ grab/ hurried/ harried/ we scramble into another checker taxicab/thrills, chills and aspirin pills . . . ."

The daughters of such women sometimes fare better. Through a combination of wits, lessons culled through keen observation and hard experience, a daughter may break the cycle. But however assured the identity of this offspring may seem, however tough or defiant her stance, her equilibrium can be shaken by the slightest intrusion from the past. A note from her "father’s ex" who is ill with cancer – an

unexpected call from her mother who is suddenly seized by a desire to discuss details of putting her affairs in order – and she is besieged by a torrent of memories. She realizes that no matter how staunchly she attempts to bolster the door and board up the windows of the closet "the size of a dining room" in which she has stuffed her myriad psychic skeletons, she is fighting a losing battle, as "new ones appear/ that weren’t placed there by my hands." While she may in certain company bow to a feeling of shame in regards to what she worries will be considered a "white-trash" upbringing, based on the erratic behaviour of her "gum-chewing . . . tight-panted . . . wine-drinking" mother, her compassion for and loyalty to the adults that make up her past remains strong. Thus she is often in emotional limbo as she moves precariously between shifting worlds, tiptoes through the potential minefields of relationships new and old.

This "chick" then is destined, to remain an outsider, a gate-crasher, an unwitting social critic. A state of serenity, is for her, somehow elusive. There is no sanctuary, no lasting state of grace. "Chick" and "church" are after all, a contradiction in terms ; one being the outcast, the madonna / whore, the proverbial thorn in the side of the other. As much as this self-professed Jezebel may sometimes yearn for communion, the blessing of redemption, the acuity of her perceptions cannot permit her such illusions. In spite of herself she cannot help but see through the clouds of incense, the tacky plastic replicas of sacred images being sold in the guise of "spiritual enlightenment." She knows all too well that any apparent garden of Eden is a facade, a myth. Whether it is the disruption of the "complacent meanderings" of

"Gap-clothed" students enjoying a sunny afternoon on Bloor, by a screaming young hooker on the run from a john, or the sudden intrusion of an exhibitionist in a deserted park, one thing is certain; an act of violence, abuse, or perversion is likely to occur; the serpent is bound to rear its head. It is the inability to recognize such truths by the more sheltered among her acquaintances that disgusts her.

Denial provides an easy means of escaping reality, of averting one’s eyes, of not having to confront or take action against instances of either public or private injustice. In the instance of the girl confronted with the exhibitionist in the park, her initial response, fear, the urge to flee, was quickly replaced by a surge of anger, indignation, and a stubborn determination that she not fall victim to her fear. Unlike "Little Miss Muffet," she refuses to let the spiders frighten her away. By willing herself into becoming what she describes as a "Fearless Bitch," by remaining in her corner of the park in a "stand-off stance", her tormentor eventually departs. If the "chick" who appears in various guises throughout this collection, should ever be in danger of "going down", you can bet your boots it will not be without a fight!

Deborah Foulks is a Vancouver-based writer whose poetry and short fiction have appeared in periodicals such as Canadian Literature, The Women and Words Anthology, CVII, Grain and a couple of the LCP Anthologies.

Sample Poems:

Kitchen Talk

Poking at hangover food

(salty eggs and Tater Tots)

you begin to list

qualities you believe I possess:

Honesty Intelligence Bravery.

Fidgeting, you look away.

There is an aside –

having seen/heard

pictures of my dirty-child face, my

Eastend-Welfare-Booze-reared, Sally-Ann –

child face, you can’t help

but see me and mine (only

on occasion, mind you)

as White Trash.

The teeth in the jaws

of my clean-woman face grit

and my eyes well.

All washing, sloughing,

articulation, matriculation

is jerked away in one swift yank.

I mumble.

Something about leaving.

Separating.

You interject with

the drama of your suffering

should I ever disappear:

my departure would

blow a hole in your heart.

And I imagine the click

as I pull the trigger behind me –

a clean hole shot

through your breast pocket,

a thin cartridge of sunlight

coming out your shoulder blade.

If I leave now,

I will see through

you forever.

Positive

In the Wome's Clinic,

filling out sheets of sexual

history, I want to wrap them

round my body and head; prevent

my eyes from seeking, being sought

as I check off Methods Used:

Withdrawal.

I check it along with Condoms.

Guilty, Irresponsible – those words

slapped on like bumperstickers.

I flick at my insolent stomach,

dreaming the usual cramps and gore.

Papers in order, I hand them

to a woman who hands me a cup

and points to the door

with the skirt-wearing stick figure

and I will my body to pee

the right hormones – implore it,

silently chanting, Bleed, Bleed.

In the tiny mind-coloured room,

eyes sticking on the silver

stirrups on a mint cushioned table.

My brain leaps into the green saddle,

spurs shining and gallops away,

leaving my eggs behind.

Until the return of the woman –

Pregnant slips through her lips.

Jangling onto my file, it ricochets

off the ceiling and down into

my defiant belly, rolling over and over

until I feel the nausea I’d checked no to.

And Partner? comes next.

Business Partner? Dance Partner?

Parner in crime?

Yes. I make one up.

Because.

Because if I don’t I’ll cry and I’ll have to

confess, admit one lousy night

with a gardener from California.

Tree planter, sperm planter,

all the same now. And it‚s

too late – tears; spring rain

on fertile ground.

Oh dear, she says in her Irish lilt.

Her name tag says, Gertrude.

Only a Gertrude would say, Oh dear, now.

Abortion? follows.

Nod. Yes. Of course, I drizzle, grateful

she said the word first.

How will he feel? He?

If he were sick, would you ask how I felt?

I want to say this. To feel powerful,

to be angry. But I can’t be angry

with Oh Dear Gertrude. I’m too lonely

and thankful and

besides, the rain is torrential now

down my cheeks my throat and I can‚t speak.

Don‚t worry, we’ll look after you.

Gentle Irish Gertrude

looks suddenly militant,

Be grateful you live in Canada.