The Many Selves: A Conversation with Cinelle Barnes
Writer, educator, editor, and advocate Cinelle Barnes is the author of the memoir Monsoon Mansion and the collection Malaya: Essays On Freedom. She’s also the editor of A Measure Of Belonging: Twenty-One Writers Of Color On The New American South. Barnes’s work focuses on themes of freedom and justice, drawing on her traumatic childhood in the Philippines and undocumented adolescence in the United States.
While Barnes published her books following the birth of her daughter, she’s been earning a literary living since she was nineteen years old. She explains, “I was an audiobook reader for bilingual books and translated books while in college, then went on to read my own audiobooks. I’ve been screening manuscripts and portfolios for awards, fellowships, publications, etc., for more than a decade, and judging written work for prizes for the past five years. It’s been a way for me not only to contribute my professional services to the literary community, but also to make money doing what I love the most in a way that feeds my soul and brain, and that doesn’t take away from my life as a mom.”
Barnes’s work addresses injustice directed toward women, children, and families: from childhood trauma and immigration to racism and classism, from economic and ecological injustice to feminism and motherhood. She illuminates the human condition from the perspective of a multi-sensory artist. (Cinelle is also trained in dance, fashion, and visual arts.) Her voice is lyrical, her lens is humanist, and her tone is one of hope, magic, and beauty.
She’s an unapologetic realist, however, and her writing reflects a compassionate, reflective confidence that’s her trademark as an educator and editor. That confidence and control manifest as reverence on the page: “There’s no dream book nor dream gig nor dream job,” she said in a 2019 interview. “Writing is the work, so we get to it every day.”
Jennie Burke: Your work reflects a belief in what you call the many selves—the people we were, the people we are, and the people we are becoming. This wisdom pertains to both writers and mothers. How did the idea of the many selves become relevant to your writing?
Cinelle Barnes: I was writing my second book, Malaya: Essays on Freedom, when the idea was solidified. I remember not knowing any other way to write a follow-up to Monsoon Mansion outside of an essay collection. There was no way, after all that I had survived and witnessed, and all that it had taken to write about those experiences, to tell a linear or single story. I was an immigrant, a mother, dancer, writer, visual artist, friend, spouse, educator, trauma survivor, etc. If you took a cross section of my life from any angle, you’d see that it was and continues to be prismatic. People who’ve survived a childhood know this. Women know this. Events, people, and society dismember us continually. They tell us, especially if we’re mothers: cut yourself into sections and then forget about this or that part of yourself. They don’t tell men this, ever. And my work as a memoirist and essayist reverses just that: it’s the work of re-membering. And as a lyrical writer with a clairvoyant sense, I’d always had a more fluid understanding of time, space, and aesthetics. I don’t so much think of it as having a past, present, and future self. I think of it more as opening up space or holding space for the cyclicality and multiplicity of my true nature. I’ve always thought of it as allowing my many selves to be friendly with each other as opposed to being in competition with one another.
JB: Time management and child care are two roadblocks to the creative process for mothers. Do you have any practical wisdom to share?
CB: I’ve learned to write from anywhere and at any time: subways, planes, playgrounds, Chick-fil-A, parked cars, Chili’s To-Go at the Chicago airport, bathroom floors, cafés filled with chatty, flirty college kids, typing on my phone while nursing, talking into my Memo app while pushing the stroller, writing on the back of receipts or margins of books while waiting at gymnastics or volleyball camp, but also in the quiet of my home when everyone is at work or school. I always think of it as just note-taking. No pressure to write “well” or “beautifully.” Just doodling, or as I like to call it, brain-raining. Going back to your previous question, I think of it as opening up time to invite any of my many selves to show up and tell me something.
When I was writing Malaya, I came across an Instagram post about the craziest places where working parents had gotten work done and the comments section was so inspiring. Some people said that they wrote their dissertations in parked cars while their kids napped in the backseat; others said their family members pledged to babysit one or two hours a week so they could write. I don’t have family nearby, so for me it’s been a drop-off childcare center (often paid for by grants) when my daughter was younger and later on a tag team of mom friends who took turns hosting playdates. My husband is also as committed to my art as I am, so he and I swap “personal” days too, usually Sunday afternoons. Now that my daughter is a tween, we set aside craft time, and simultaneously work on some kind of writing, drawing, or a sewing project. Any bit of creativity feeds the writing, I think.
I also track my word count when it’s a book-writing year; setting weekly or monthly word count goals (that I don’t always meet) has always kept me on track. When it’s absolutely impossible to write, I don’t punish myself for not writing. I just go back to the books. I read and read and read. I let others’ words tease ideas out of my heart or brain, or I let others’ words be a place for my mind to rest. Other times I read my own work, published and not, and remind myself that I am good at what I do and have ways of expression that surprise even me when they do come. It’s about setting up your life with reminders of who you are, what you can do, and why you do it.
I’ve also learned not to sweat the small stuff and to not always give it my best because that’s just impossible. That’s too much pressure. And I think that goes back to the question of time management. I’ve learned that when I pressure myself too much, I fret over it or dread the work the next time. And that dread is such a time suck, you know? Giving my second best allows me to come back to the work with less anxiety and allows me to keep coming back to it, period. And that frequent coming back to, that’s what makes revision happen. That’s what gets books written. That’s really where the magic is.
JB: Mothers must set boundaries to complete creative work. Is there an ethos, or are there role models that have inspired you to establish the boundaries necessary for a writing career?
CB: Love yourself the way you would love your child. If you don’t want your children to be surrounded by things and people that inhibit their growth, you shouldn’t want yourself to be surrounded by things and people that inhibit yours. If you can structure your child’s calendar so that they get to rehearsals, practices, games, tutoring, play dates, parties, and school events that matter to them, then you should want to structure your calendar so that you can have time for fun as well as to learn and practice your skills too. If we can teach our children self-advocacy, we can also teach it to ourselves. My daughter is so good at this, and she inspires me. She’s my daily reminder. I think as (American) mothers we are socialized to be self-sacrificial and to take the brunt of every single thing. We’re socialized to be grateful for the leftovers, to be apologetic, to always be comparing ourselves, and to be self-deprecating. So icky. That’s the patriarchy right there.
I think mothers deserve the best, like our babies deserve the best. We can’t give what we don’t have. I think we should always be aiming for longevity and sustainability; the very things we want for Mother Earth, we should want for ourselves and other moms. We should also do away with the capitalist mindset of competition and scarcity. Sometimes we say yes to everything and everyone because we think there’s not going to be enough to go around, or there won’t be a next time or another opportunity. I never tell my child to compare herself with others, so why would I compare myself to other women or other writers? I never expect my child to do everything, so why would I do everything? I tell her all the freakin’ time to chill and take a break, so why wouldn’t I tell myself the same? I tell her to ask for help, so I need to also be asking for help. And I’ve already said this: stop giving your best to everything. When my daughter is stuck and frustrated with school work or her volleyball serve, I tell her to step back and be okay with what she can currently do. Consolidate, cut back, aim lower. Believe it or not, these are things I tell her and tell myself. It’s the kind thing to do, and the kind thing is never wrong.
1 reply on “The Many Selves: A Conversation with Cinelle Barnes”
I love this interview! Annddd I think that men ARE told to break off parts of themselves, to keep parts hidden. I think this is an effect of imposing rigid categories like gender on an inherently dynamic world.