Photo courtesy of Todd Crawford
NER staff reader Meera Vijayann speaks with author Mildred Kiconco Barya about cultural mythologies, the masks we wear to deny our humanity, and her essay “Poetics of Transmutation” from issue 44.3.
Meera Vijayann: In your essay “Poetics of Transmutation,” you use an encounter with an eastern rat snake to unravel the cultural mythologies you were taught around the animals. Why was this subject important to you?
Mildred Kiconco Barya: Our beliefs and habits are formed at an early age through socialization. So, to understand who we are and the forces that continue to shape our thoughts and influence our actions, we have to go back to childhood and examine how we were raised. Also, mythologies cut across cultures. Often within a particular story or piece of art are universal elements. Chances are, if I’m working with a theme or topic that’s specific to my culture, a person from a different tradition might discover shared elements in the story and identify with my subject. Besides, cultural mythologies tend to intersect. Mostly symbols remain the same, but patterns and interpretations differ across time and generations. One culture can offer more positive or negative attributes while another is ambivalent. Have you ever read a Cinderella story without the shoes? They may be boots, sandals, high heels . . . Whatever kind, they are significant markers worldwide, and that fascinates me.
The snake itself is a timeless—ancient and modern—creature, present in all the world mythologies and at the birth of creation in biblical sources. It holds so much power; it is widely feared, respected, honored, and so on. It carries a lot of religious and cultural symbolism. It knows what God knows and therefore, is not only a formidable rival but an equal, vying for the same attention and space. But I don’t deliberately choose my animals. They come to me. I just cooperate.
MV: Throughout the essay, you grapple with the idea of fear and how it hinders our social relationships and understanding of the world around us. What do you hope that readers—in America and Uganda, especially—take away from your piece?
MKB: I think my biggest hope is for readers to understand that it’s natural to have fears. It’s important to acknowledge being afraid as the first step towards appreciating one another and thereafter, what might need to change. Generally, there seems to be a pervasive denial of fear. Why is admission considered a sign of weakness? We’re supposed to be strong and courageous and confident at all times, but isn’t fear a part of being human and claiming otherwise a mask we wear to deny our humanity? For me, to acknowledge what terrifies me is to embrace myself and recognize a trait that initially dwells within. What if, as a collective, we faced all that lurks inside as an effort to comprehend the nature of our inner darkness instead of thinking that what’s going to kill us is externally based?
MV: So you named the snake “Missy”—and then a personal bond was established?
MKB: Yes. It is complicated because on the one hand, the gesture implies possession. Control. We associate naming with power. On the other hand, there’s bonding that establishes a sense of identity and belonging. The latter is what I wanted to focus on and, by extension, Missy’s own power and freedom. A reconciliation of opposites, so to speak.
MV: It’s fascinating that you’ve stylistically borrowed form from a day-to-day journal to examine physical and emotional distance in narrative. Is there a reason you chose this form?
MKB: I began writing this piece when I first saw the snake and later I realized that throughout my life, I’ve collected over fifty journals on various topics. Whenever I move, I carry them with me, but I never use them. So, it struck me that I should read them. I’d approached writing as a ‘process-oriented’, fluid, and embodied activity. It was never ‘material.’ Using the form of a journal enabled me to develop a different relationship and see the material dimension before the piece became a tangible essay. Thinking of writing as material is now helpful for me in determining form, beats, and pacing.
MV: You mention that you read a lot of historical fiction and travel writing as a child in Kabale, Uganda. Are there any writers who have particularly influenced you?
MKB: Ben Okri is a longtime favorite because his fiction always engages with magical realism in a historical way. So does the work of José Eduardo Agualusa and Salman Rushdie. Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing spans across different historical periods in a delightful, absorbing narrative. When I read Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko, I was similarly transported to a rich world of storytelling and unforgettable characters. Longstanding writers who have made an impact on me include Charles Dickens, Gabriel García Márquez, Haruki Murakami, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Michael Ondaatje, Ali Smith, and Hilary Mantel. They’ve all explored cultural mythologies in refreshing ways.
Meera Vijayann, a nonfiction reader for NER, is an essayist and writer based in Seattle, Washington. She is currently working on her debut novel.
Mildred Kiconco Barya is a North Carolina–based writer, educator, and poet of East African descent. She’s the author of four full-length poetry collections, most recently The Animals of My Earth School (Terrapin Books, 2023). Her prose, hybrids, and poems have appeared in Shenandoah, Joyland, Cincinnati Review, Tin House, and elsewhere. She’s now working on a collection of creative nonfiction, and her essay “Being Here in This Body” won the 2020 Linda Flowers Literary Award and was published in the North Carolina Literary Review. She serves on the board of African Writers Trust and blogs here: www.mildredbarya.com.