5 Questions with Destiny O. Birdsong
Today, we published the final installment of Destiny O. Birdsong’s short story, “Fair Exchange.” Michael Colbert spoke with Destiny about complex relationship dynamics, bisexual narratives, and writing across genres.
The Rejoinder: The language and relationship dynamics in this story are so vibrant; what was most exciting for you to explore as you began writing "Fair Exchange"?
Destiny O. Birdsong: I began the story most interested in a phenomenon I was seeing among friends and in my personal life, where people wanted certain things from each other, but they either didn’t know how to articulate those wants or couldn’t set up healthy boundaries that allowed for both fulfillment and compassion. This is exactly Steven’s issue. It’s true that when he asks Bíbí for an open relationship, she gets angry, but he allows her frustration to scare him away from a deeper conversation because he sees it as a reprimand instead of a plea for clarity. And in the absence of clarity, things get messy very quickly.
TR: One moment that I found particularly original in Deckland and Bíbí’s relationship is when he interacts with her with candor and encourages her not to move through the world acting surprised. This dynamic struck me as both original and true to life--could you speak to what sparked your interest in exploring this part of Bíbí’s personality?
DB: I’m definitely guilty of moments when I forget I have agency and, to be honest, as a Black queer woman, that’s an easy thing to do: so many forces are always attempting to act on me or on my behalf. If unchecked, that can slide into an expectation of disappointment—and powerlessness—that I get comfortable with. Then, when someone says something truthful about my power, I am overwhelmed by that too. This is what happens in the kitchen moment between Deckland and Bíbí. She is surprised by his ability to read her, to see her because she is very accustomed to being unseen. But with his seeing, she also has to take responsibility for her own complicity in the state of her life, which is something she has not had to do with Steven because he’s an easy person to blame. (This isn’t to say he isn’t responsible for where they are as a couple—but she’s also had the power to walk away and has refused.)
TR: We're so thrilled to be publishing this story for our Pride Issue. I'm curious if you have any thoughts about particular possibilities or challenges in crafting bisexual narratives.
DB: I suppose the biggest challenge is writing about characters who, if you look at one moment in the story, they look very straight, and at another moment, very queer. That can be a frustrating thing for readers (and sometimes for writers) for the same reasons it can be frustrating in life. We still live in a world where the unreadability of queer people who can blend easily into heteronormativity makes us safer. That form of conditional safety is deeply unfair, and at times, I’ll admit, makes us look like we’re dabbling in queerness without suffering the consequences and dangers of many people who cannot “pass.” However, if we can agree that human sexuality is complex, then we have to allow for the fluidity of bisexuality as well, and in turn we have to allow for characters who reflect that reality.
For me, the joy comes in the possibility of creating representations of Black love in all its forms. I recently finished a story about a Black lesbian sex worker, and another about a woman whose male partner has just survived a moment of self-harm. In both, the women are entangled with people they struggle to understand, and that’s where my interest lies: in exploring what happens when our desires complicate our lives. But I am also committed to writing stories about the absolute power and beauty of Black love in every form I can speak to. I’ll never stop doing that, challenges be damned.
TR: You're a writer of both prose and poetry. Can you speak to how those things fit together in your creative practice?
DB: As a multi-genre writer, I am always asked this question and (at least in my opinion) I have yet to come up with an answer that feels inclusive of the experience. On the one hand, writing poetry and prose feel like two different practices in terms of time and the muscles I’m using to craft a line of poetry as opposed to writing believable dialogue. But what I have noticed is that in both genres I am drawn to conversations about how we treat each other and how that treatment can reverberate through generations, across our relationships, and how it can change us, sometimes in irreparable ways. Now, why that comes to me in a poem one day and in a short story the next? I wish I knew, though I suspect there are innumerable factors: my environment, the art I’ve consumed, my idiosyncratic impulses, the general alchemy of making a thing. In hindsight, though, when I look back at periods of production, I’ll find that I am often teasing out different parts of the same conversation in multiple genres. It’s kaleidoscopic, sometimes unintentional, and wholly inexplicable—even to me.
TR: What's exciting to you in fiction right now, either in your own writing or in what you're reading?
DB: In both my own writing and others’, I’m interested in romances that are chaotic and unpredictable, in sibling relationships, retaliatory crime, and characters who make me scream at the page (or the screen). I think the rise of social media and the pandemic have altered my attention span, and I need characters who intrigue me, who make me want to keep going to find out what the hell they’re going to do next. In the past few years, I’ve also become acclimated to well-choreographed chaos. I am staunchly opposed to it in my personal life (even though it is always happening), but in art? I’m here for it. It’s revelatory and fun.
