97. A Literal Seat at the Proverbial Table – Lisa Ann Cockrel
Chairs can hold us up or let us down. Likewise, they can bring us together or keep us apart.
I spend a lot of time thinking about chairs. They’re such an elegant technology, a genius bit of engineering that gives us the power to levitate, to relax our bodies in midair. A chair doesn’t defy gravity so much as mediate its demands—sometimes forcefully via a leather recliner, sometimes coyly via a cantilevered armchair. And sometimes that negotiation breaks down and you end up on your ass on the floor.
As a very fat person, I spend a lot of time thinking about chairs because I never take it for granted that I can sit down. Chairs are rarely made with bodies like mine in mind and as a result ending up on the floor is always a live possibility. I’ve broken chairs at a friend’s dining table and at my own backyard birthday party and in a job interview. (I still got the job.) I’ve squeezed into seats in theaters and classrooms that left me bruised. I dig chairs and I am wary of them at the same time.
Chairs can hold us up or let us down. Likewise, they can bring us together or keep us apart. A chair’s design might be the smallest unit of society’s structure—in that one piece of furniture we find DNA that helps determine who gets to spend time in what spaces and at what cost. If you can’t sit down, you have to keep moving on. If you can’t sit down, you’re not truly welcome. I think about this every time I sit on a city bench that has awkwardly placed armrests to make it impossible for unhoused folks to stretch out.
It’s been years since I’ve broken a chair, not because I’ve lost any weight but because I’m learning how to advocate for a literal seat at the proverbial table. And I hope that I’m getting better at advocating for other people, too. I hope I’m getting better at imagining bodies that are not like mine and stocking my world with all different kinds of chairs. Let’s levitate together for a while. What could be better?
– Lisa Ann Cockrel
Prompt:
Picture the chairs that you sit in on a regular basis—at home, in public, comfortable or uncomfortable. Now pick one of those chairs, and write an ode to it, considering the physical and emotional sensations it evokes. Does the lumbar support ease strain on your lower back? Does the chair remind you of a beloved grandparent? Does it have a great view? Try to make visible the dynamics of sitting you’ve gotten so used to that they’re currently invisible.
Anesce Dremen
Location: Jaipur, India (from the USA)
About: I ran away from my abusive family in 2013; this year, I have written a memoir about how I survived and escaped. While the majority of my work focuses on body, name, and identity, The Isolation Journals prompt encouraged me to instead consider an object, a forgotten chair, I had otherwise excluded entirely. I have since been inspired to reflect on and incorporate the role of inanimate objects as I edit my book.
Age: 25
Reckless Reclining
Rustic oak brown, arguably worn-coffee-stain-shit-brown:
Dad’s chair. The time out chair. The reclining chair.
As elementary children caught in arguments,
some punishment for brittle violence even -
we were set, each frowning and arms folded,
unto the recliner, instructed to not move until we
apologized, hugged, and said “I love you.”
Sisterly stubborn boding nullified authenticity,
so we’d remain unbudging with extended frowns.
When an hour expired, a bored mother would retreat
to her sewing room, so I’d turn to the younger one,
(really, the naughty one) and say, “Wanna go back
to playing?” We glance over the table, careful for
pestering adult eyes and nod, our apology sealed without
ever having to speak ‘sorry.’ Our code released, we didn’t
hug, loosened our crossed arms, and waited with bolstered
pride for yet again navigating the loop-hope of audienceless
absolution. Careful though, when we were being released,
if either of us rolled our eyes at a dreaded suggestion to
“kiss and make up.” - Yuk! - then, our penalty extended
another ten minutes in time out. Then, I’d pluck the sinister
stain, still uncertain if it was Brewer’s ice cream, midnight
soup, or some unidentified burn that forever scorned the cover,
the ratty fibers ironed down in a bald spot mirroring that
of my father’s supposedly shiny head.
I was wrong to assume time-outs were only for toddlers.
As a young adult, I was confined to that dreadful space,
only the top layer then dusted with the penetrating layers
of cat hair -- tucked in from nearly a decade’s mid-afternoon
naps in the sun. So I’d pluck at the cat hairs, yelled at for
making a mess, but at least I was cleaning the frame.
Tidying it vulnerable as I could not clean my own name.
This chair, squared off from the television, I took to in
nights, farthest from contact of any on the couches, book
in hand, willing to risk another beating of “Get your nose
out of that book! It’s family time. You need to spend time with family.”
This was the chair, as I sat in silence, anxiety attack refusing
access to my voice - he approached, angry. The righteous man,
God’s own man, of course, my father. When he towered over
me, this time in sight of his wife, unafraid to be recorded for his
violence as his fist collided with the brown material inches left
of my face, forcing this chair -- the time out chair, dad’s chair,
the reclining chair -- a beast with a heavy, metal frame compacted
within -- forcing this chair to flip backwards, crashing against the wall.
Anonymous
Oh my green & white plastic patio chair,
How I adore lounging in you!
Your cross hatch pattern
Keeps my bottom comfortable.
And I can sit for hours,
Watching birds
Or enjoying a social distancing happy hour.
Oh my green & white plastic patio chair,
Your dimensions are perfect!
My knees make pleasurable
90 degree angles
When I recline in you.
And the arm rests…..
They are superb!
Another 90 degree angle for my elbows.
You are light of weight.
I can pick you up and move you around the backyard.
Turn you this way to watch the sunset.
Turn you that way to watch the hummingbirds at the feeder.
Oh my green & white plastic patio chair,
You have saved me!
From being locked up in the house.
You lure me outside
By your exquisite design
And promises to rest and repose
And connect with nature.
You encourage me to socialize!
For I have four of your kind.
And I can easily space you and your comrades six feet apart.
I’ve enjoyed….
A Malbec with friends
Peppered Toscano
Turkish figs too.
I’ve marveled at……
Nighthawks and bats
And hummingbirds
Even a bobcat.
All because I’ve stopped my day
Opened the door
And softened my body into your perfect embrace.
Ahhhhh, my green & white plastic patio chair
You are divine!
Denise Krebs
Location: Manama, Bahrain
About: I loved Lisa Ann Cockrel's prompt today to write an ode to one of your chairs. There was no doubt which one I would write an ode to. This chair is my everyday friend.
Age: 61
Oh, my dear loveseat,
I see you there with your
Caramel chestnut suit
Of faux suede
Fitting perfectly around
Your well-placed rolls.
Rolls just where I need them--
The lower back bump and
The pillowy paddings at my
Neck and head.
You are a felicitous fit for me.
Thank you, loveseat, for your
Gliding recliner mechanism
That works without a hitch
And allows me a variety
Of positions--upright,
Leaning at a 100-degree angle
And fully reclined, at peace
Like a pearl in a shell.
How many hours have I spent resting
And living here with you?
Thank you, my friend,
For you are not just a recliner.
You are a caring, comforting,
Supporting, and trustworthy friend.
You hold me while I read,
Chat with my family across the sea,
Discuss issues of importance,
Shout at the nightly news,
And cuddle with my husband.
Oh, my dear loveseat, I see you there.
Thank you.
Lisbeth Redfield
Location: Brooklyn, NY
About: I'm an editor and occasional writer based in Brooklyn, NY. As for the inspiration, more (much more) on the gray IKEA sofa, I love to hate in my entry.
Before the pandemic, I made fun of my fiancé for owning two sofas. I mean, it’s New York City; our apartment is 650 square feet. Who has the luxury of owning any furniture that isn’t immediately necessary? We don’t even have a proper dining room table, for goodness sake. But we do have two sofas, and now that we have been marooned in our apartment since March I have stopped mocking them.
The soft red one is placed by a window in the back of the apartment. I have spent many hours sitting on it, writing my prompt answers or reading books or petting the cat who believes the sofa is hers for watching birds. When everything gets to be too much, I channel my inner Bronte sister and drape my upper arms over the back, gaze out the window, and sigh. Strangely, it does help me feel better.
But the real beast is the gray sofa in the living room, which I have named the gray monster. It is an IKEA sofa with gray and white upholstery in a loose weave pattern that looks vaguely classy. It is not, in fact, monstrous; it is a perfectly normal two-seater with cushy pillows and slightly saggy cushions. You wouldn’t see it looking, but when you sit down you notice that it is worn in. We built a nest for the cat when it was chilly, piling her favorite blanket on the back right-hand side; she would burrow into the blue fleece until only the tip of her tail was visible. She was the happiest of all of us; unlike humans, cats get the option of hibernating through a pandemic.
The gray monster faces the TV. We binged shows on this sofa through the spring, trying to make time go faster with the most futile exercises we could find: my fiancé fighting to keep his Rimworld colonists from dying, me unraveling the sleeves of a sweater I had knit in 2019 but done wrong. For reasons known only to our apartment wiring, the only place we have work-quality wifi is our living room; I have been working on the gray monster for four months. Some days I feel like I sit here for 12 or 16 hours, mostly dutifully upright with my laptop perched on the coffee table or in my lap. Sometimes my back hurts; other times the knee I ruined doing ballet as a teenager hurts. The gray monster is not ergonomic.
If the world has narrowed to our apartment, then our apartment has narrowed to the gray monster. I called my family from the gray monster to tell them I was engaged. I applied for unemployment with the pillows of the gray monster at my back. I have watched videos of my baby niece learn to roll over and tried to support a family member with long-haul COVID from the embrace of the gray monster.
Frankly, I’m sick of it. If you ask me in five years to sum up the first half of 2020 I will show you a picture of this couch, which is approaching Beckettian symbolism: I want to leave it / I can’t leave it. Winston Churchill called depression the black dog, but as I head into my 18th week of lockdown, it feels more like a gray monster: inconvenient, uncomfortable, unavoidable, impossible to fight except by sitting it out.
Vida Pedersen
Location: Corvallis, Oregon
About: I am an activity director at a retirement community. Each and every journal prompt has provided me with inspiration and something to look forward to. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Age: 32
The kitchen bar stools. Tall wooden legs, our legs dangle and twist to balance on the black seats with the short, arching, wooden backs. They swivel side to side, letting you dance while you talk, waving your hands, usually just one hand though, the other holding a wine glass. This is where we sit at the end of the day and eat. This is where we have our Monday night housemate dinners with Dean. This is where we eat the pizza Chris makes at least once per week since the pandemic, perfecting the crust, perfecting the pizza peel slide onto the hot stone. This is where I sit and watch Chris make breakfast burritos. Last February, this is where my mom sat and watched us make her dinner. This is where we would set out plates of food for our friends and family. This is where I make waffles. This is where we do our kitchen dance.