The Ladi Doth Protest Too Much

Evening Dress

c. 1931

by Peggy Hoyt, New York

me: yeah i know, they’re all primary colors, it’s perfect

When you go for an MLS (Master’s of Library Science, which is a thing, and which is usually required for “professional-level” library work [which is also a weird and contentious concept that I won’t go into here]), one of the things you study is the organization of information. This deals with how to determine what a book or other material is “about"—a concept we tongue-in-cheek call “aboutness"—and how to convey that to a potential user of the item and make it easy for them to find. Things like keywords and subject headings, do I put this book about how often wild birds attack aerial drones in with books about birds or with books about technology, if its a fictional novel do I put fantasy in it’s own section or mix it in with all of the other fiction, so on and so on.

OP is organizing books by how they would look for them. OP’s partner is thinking in terms of aboutness. This is a system that works for OP because it’s their personal library: they know basically what books they own and they only own books that are relevant to them, and if they know what the book looks like, that can be a quick way to find it.

In a library that assumes the public (or people who do not own that particular collection of books) are using the collection, that doesn’t work. Books are often re-issued in multiple covers, or re-bound in new covers when they get worn out, and if the user doesn’t know what the book looks like or is expecting a different cover, they’re lost. That’s why non-personal libraries used standardized cataloging systems like the Dewey Decimal System or Library of Congress System to organize a book by what it’s “about”, and then put books about the same or similar topics together, marked with labels and signage so a person unfamiliar with the book or collection can find their way to it.

Basically, OP’s system works for their own personal library, because it’s best suited to how the primary user—OP themselves—looks for books. OP’s librarian partner is coming from a background of thinking in terms of a public-facing collection, where aboutness is the key criteria and communicating it to a user unfamiliar with the collection is the priority.

The Monterey Bay Aquarium PROUDly presents “Otter This World,” performed by Monét X Change with special guest Trinity the Tuck.

This collaboration is a celebration of sea otters, healthy kelp forests, and the magic that comes to life when drag queens channel their ocean inspiration.

It’s also a beautiful reminder of the importance of community, pride, and the power of showing up as yourself. Because the ocean needs you, exactly as you are.

This month is the one year anniversary of posting my poem “Condolences” to TikTok and Instagram, where it amassed millions of likes and tens of thousands of comments.

Since, people have used the poem for adaptive art pieces, short plays, books, and class work. For your piece of art to be transformed into another…it’s difficult to describe.

After several rejections from poetry publications a decade ago, I decided to post my work online instead. The responses were overwhelming. I realized that an official publication doesn’t make you a poet. Writing poetry does, and bonus points if you manage to resonate with just one other soul who needed to hear what you needed to say.

I was utterly taken aback by the response to this piece. People have asked me many times to explain it, but from the response it was clear that the meaning can be explicated with a little time.

Some people who didn’t understand it until it was explained were angry when it came together. It wasn’t written for them.

I’m only grateful that it reached the people who needed it.

I feel that the imagery is part of the piece, but I know not everyone can or cares to listen to a video. Here is the poem:

———————

They buried a girl in my hometown today.

“A young woman, gone too soon, in the prime of her life,” they all said.

My friends and I all knew her. We grew up together.

We were in all the same classes and hobbies and we made up games together at recess.

But none of us went to her funeral. We weren’t invited, because the people planning it didn’t think we’d understand. They said it wasn’t our loss.

So we got together for drinks. We laughed all morning and played card games all day.

At 4 o’clock, we heard the church bells. We saw that long, sad procession of cars stretch like a creek through town, up the cemetery hill.

We heard strange rumors that night, that the casket was empty. That they put it hollow in the ground.

So we went to the plot first thing in the morning. They buried her empty box next to her dad, down the row from an estranged aunt she never really knew all that well.

There wouldn’t be a stone for months, but the little placard had my name on it. But not the one I go by these days.

“How strange,” we all said. “What a waste of good crying.”

All of this mourning for me, and I was down the street the whole time, laughing and drinking.

But some people will never understand. They’d rather plan a funeral than learn a new name.

My friend said she felt sorry for them, in some small way.

What a sad notion—to lose a daughter who never lived—