Susan Seizer was a luminescent bundle of irreverent energy and one of the many ways she transformed the world was by co-founding this blog. In her honor, we are posting people’s recollections of how she made all of our lives better. May her memory be a blessing.
How to Apologize by Ellen Bass
Cook a large fish—choose one with many bones, a skeleton
you will need skill to expose, maybe the flying
silver carp that’s invaded the Great Lakes, tumbling
the others into oblivion. If you don’t live
near a lake, you’ll have to travel.
Walking is best and shows you mean it,
but you could take a train and let yourself
be soothed by the rocking
on the rails. It’s permitted
to receive solace for whatever you did
or didn’t do, pitiful, beautiful
human. When my mother was in the hospital,
my daughter and I had to clear out the home
she wouldn’t return to. Then she recovered
and asked, incredulous,
How could you have thrown out all my shoes?
So you’ll need a boat. You could rent or buy,
but, for the sake of repairing the world,
build your own. Thin strips
of Western red cedar are perfect,
but don’t cut a tree. There’ll be
a demolished barn or downed trunk
if you venture further.
And someone will have a mill.
And someone will loan you tools.
The perfume of sawdust and the curls
that fall from your plane
will sweeten the hours. Each night
we dream thirty-six billion dreams. In one night
we could dream back everything lost.
So grill the pale flesh.
Unharness yourself from your weary stories.
Then carry the oily, succulent fish to the one you hurt.
There is much to fear as a creature
caught in time, but this
is safe. You need no defense. This
is just another way to know
you are alive.
Kate Graber: I read Susan’s book in graduate school at the University of Michigan, in a seminar on performance with Alaina Lemon, so I was delighted and a little awed when we became colleagues at Indiana University several years later. Susan was always fabulous. I learned loads by observing her in the classroom, in meetings and talks and hallway conversations, and just going about the daily life of a faculty member. One of our last conversations was after she had retired, at a protest. We talked about the protest grounds as a performance space (because of course we did), about the relative power of different embodied actions, and about the unique power of her own wheelchaired body. I think of that conversation often because it felt vulnerable and dangerous; she was weighing risks that most people would not be willing to take, and our theoretical positions suddenly became visceral. As we parted ways, she said “thank you,” as though I had empowered her—which I remember thinking was odd, because she had been empowering me, not just in that conversation but in so many other ways besides. I think that was one of her unique gifts, and something that I wish I’d had more time to learn from her: Susan made people braver, by being brave herself, but she acted like we’d been the brave ones all along.
