{"product_id":"life-of-the-party-isbn-9781984801906","title":"Life of the Party","description":"\u003cb\u003eA dazzling debut collection of raw and explosive poems about growing up in a sexist, sensationalized world, from a thrilling new feminist voice.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ei’m a good girl, bad girl, dream girl, sad girl\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003egirl next door sunbathing in the driveway\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ei wanna be them all at once, i wanna be\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eall the girls I’ve ever loved\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e —from “Girl”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lauded for the power of her writing and having attracted an online fan base of millions for her extraordinary spoken-word performances, Olivia Gatwood now weaves together her own coming-of-age with an investigation into our culture’s romanticization of violence against women. At times blistering and riotous, at times soulful and exuberant, \u003ci\u003eLife of the Party \u003c\/i\u003eexplores the boundary between what is real and what is imagined in a life saturated with fear. Gatwood asks, How does a girl grow into a woman in a world racked by violence? Where is the line between perpetrator and victim? In precise, searing language, she illustrates how what happens to our bodies can make us who we are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLife of the Party\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Delicately devastating, this book will make us all ‘feel less alone in the dark.’ ”\u003cb\u003e—Miel Bredouw, writer and comedian, \u003ci\u003ePunch Up the Jam\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Gatwood writes about the women who were forgotten and the men who got off too easy with an effortlessness and empathy and anger that yanked every emotion on the spectrum out of me. Imagine, we get to live in the age of Olivia Gatwood. Goddamn.”\u003cb\u003e—Jamie Loftus, writer and comedian, \u003ci\u003eBoss Whom Is Girl \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Bechdel Cast\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“I’ve read every poem in \u003ci\u003eLife of the Party\u003c\/i\u003e. I’ve read each of them more than once. In some parts of the book the spine is already breaking because I’ve spent so much time poring over it and losing hours in this world Olivia Gatwood has partly created, but partly just invited the reader to enter on their own, caution signs be damned. This book is enlightening, inspiring, igniting, and f***ing \u003ci\u003escary\u003c\/i\u003e. I loved every word on every page with a ferocity that frightened me.”\u003cb\u003e—Madeline Brewer\u003cb\u003e, actress, \u003ci\u003eThe Handmaid’s Tale, Orange Is the New Black,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCam\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“I cannot remember reading a collection of poems in one sitting before, but I dove through Gatwood’s in one evening—and then came up for air and dove again.”\u003cb\u003e—Lauren Berry, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lifting Dress\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Gatwood’s poems invite a contemporary understanding of sexuality and the feminine form, feminism and inclusion, intersection and advocacy. Her metaphors and images are both breath and being. This book is an offering to the silenced, for firepower and reflection. A haystack of hallelujahs resides in these pages.”\u003cb\u003e—Mahogany L. Browne, author of \u003ci\u003eBlack Girl Magic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I love Olivia Gatwood’s voice, her spirit, her genius way of turning and turning and turning a poem until it shines. These poems are a light. I’d follow this book anywhere. I’d trust it with my life.”\u003cb\u003e—Carrie Fountain, author of \u003ci\u003eBurn Lake\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eOlivia Gatwood \u003c\/b\u003ehas received national recognition for her poetry, writing workshops, and work as an educator in sexual assault prevention and recovery. She is the author of the poetry chapbook \u003ci\u003eNew American Best Friend\u003c\/i\u003e, and her poems have appeared in such publications as \u003ci\u003eMuzzle, Winter Tangerine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePoetry City\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTinderbox Poetry Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Missouri Review\u003c\/i\u003e. As a finalist at Brave New Voices, Women of the World Poetry Slam, and the National Poetry Slam, Gatwood has been featured on HBO, \u003ci\u003eHuffPost,\u003c\/i\u003e MTV, VH1, and the BBC, among other media outlets. She is a full-time touring artist, and has performed at more than two hundred schools and universities worldwide.\u003cp\u003eGirl\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafter Ada Limón\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei don’t think i’ll ever not be one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeven when the dozen grays sprouting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom my temple take hold and spread\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a sterling fungus across my scalp,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeven when the skin on my hands is loose\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas a duvet, draped across my knuckles,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeven when i know everything there is to know\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout heartbreak or envy or the mortality\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof my parents, i think, even then i’ll want\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto be called girl, no matter the mouth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit comes from or how they mean it,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egirl, the curling smoke after a sparkler\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003espatters into dark, girl, sweet spoon of crystal sugar\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat the bottom of my coffee, girl, whole mouth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof whipped cream at the birthday party, say girl,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei think, i’ll never die, i’ll never stop running\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough sprinklers or climbing out of open windows\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei’ll never pass up a jar of free dum dums\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei’ll never stop ripping out the hangnail with my teeth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei’m a good girl, bad girl, dream girl, sad girl\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egirl next door sunbathing in the driveway\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei wanna be them all once, i wanna be\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the girls i’ve ever loved,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emean girls, shy girls, loud girls, my girls,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall of us angry on our porches,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erolled tobacco resting on our bottom lips\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eour bodies are the only things we own,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eleave our kids with nothing when we die\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe’ll still be girls then, too, we’ll still be pretty,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estill be loved, still be soft to the touch\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epink lip and powdered nose in the casket\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea dozen sobbing men in stiff suits\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyes, even then, we are girls\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eespecially then, we are girls\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esilent and dead and still\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe life of the party.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf a Girl Screams in the Middle of the Night\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand no one is there to hear it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehere’s what happens. i’ll tell you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif she is in the woods, it shoots\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom the cannon of her throat\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; smacks itself against a branch,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhips around it like a tetherball.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif she is facedown in the moss,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit seeps into the forest floor’s pores,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; every time a hiker passes through,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe days beyond her unravel,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; steps along the sponge-green floor,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea small howl will fan out from beneath his feet.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif the girl is in the city,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe scream gets lodged\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the cubby of a neighbor’s ear,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eprevents him from sleeping at night\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; so, naturally, he sells it to a secondhand store.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe takes it to the buying counter\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein a jewelry box \u0026amp; says,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei don’t know who this belonged to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut i don’t want it anymore.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; though the pierced \u0026amp; dyed employee\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis reluctant to take it, she sees the purple\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebags like rotting figs under the neighbor’s eyes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso she offers store credit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; so as not to startle customers,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea small label will be placed on the box\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat says a scream \u0026amp; each time a person cracks\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit open the girl’s rattling tongue will shake loose\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto the store. this happens for months but no one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewants to buy it, to take care of it. everyone wants\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto hear it once to feel something \u0026amp; then go back\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto their quiet homes, so the store throws it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein a dumpster out back, where the garbage\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etruck picks it up \u0026amp; smashes it beneath\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eits hydraulic fists. the scream will get buried\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein a landfill somewhere in new jersey\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; later the landfill will be coated in grass,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhere a wandering child will see a hill,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewill throw her body against it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; shriek the whole way down.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGhost Story for Masturbating at Sleepovers\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafter Melissa Lozada-Oliva\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehave you heard the one about the girls\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein sleeping bags littered across the living room floor,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efaces next to each other’s feet, bellies full on pantry food\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand quiet, eyes vigilant to a black cube television?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein my version it goes like: one girl slithers out into the dark\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand whispers the song of herself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esoon, they are all on their stomachs,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epushing up against long johns\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith the mounds of their palms,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand no one names what is happening, both because\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit will become real and because there is not a name\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor it yet, only the knowledge\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat whatever it is must not be said aloud.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein another version, a mother is falling into a still sleep,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecertain that her daughter has not yet discovered\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat what swells is not always a wound. she wakes,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehours later, to an orchestra of breath in the next room\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand makes her way down the hall, hovers in the doorway,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand sees a dozen girls in white, quivering against the carpet.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor a moment, a small chaos blooms in her sternum,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003echeeks erupt with blood, the dance of denial\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein her stomach, and then she remembers her own\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esmall ghosts--the curl of her best friend’s toes in a room\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike this one, breath echoing from her pillow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eback into her mouth again and again, like this,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003euntil she grew tired and resolved herself into the floor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo Baptism\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOnce, everything was a gift. Once, anything\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eresembling the thing we wanted was the thing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe wanted. We were not yet gangly and scowling\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat the generic cereal in the cabinet\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor knock-off Adidas slides with four stripes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen we begged for a swimming pool and my father\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efilled trash cans with hose water, we saw\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhat was made for our bodies and no one else’s;\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen he built a playhouse from splintered\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eplywood, with a metal slide, we saw a giant\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esilver tongue spilling into the dirt.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen the sun lifted itself to its highest point,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea proud bully, and the city became a third-degree\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eburn, we ignored the desert curfew and instead\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eheard the slide singing, One more ride,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eimagined ourselves floating without burns\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the ground. So I stood at the top, naked\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eunder my dress, and let my legs unfold in front\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof me, lace parachute ballooning from my hips,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebare butt to the metal, blisters hatching\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike small eggs, rising, pink yolks,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI heard the drought laughing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith its smoker’s throat:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere’s no water for you here.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe pain I don’t say\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eout loud, builds a home\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einside me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst Grade, 1998\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDylan got busted for bringing a bullet to school \u0026amp; when he slipped the casing out of his pocket like a rare pill we were all certain that the hollow point would explode at any second, our bodies tense and heavy like a dozen dying suns, we imagined his hand blown to confetti but I knew he came from a family that shot big game, I knew they had a meat freezer \u0026amp; glass-eyed deer on every wall, so it wasn’t his fault he didn’t see bullets the way the rest of us did, something he could toss up and catch in his palm with ease \u0026amp; it was the same year my lips were so chapped that the red crack ran up beneath my nose \u0026amp; I couldn’t stop licking the wound \u0026amp; when I left class to hold my burning mouth against the water fountain, Frankie was passed out \u0026amp; bleeding from his forehead on the hallway floor \u0026amp; Ms. Rosemary said I might have saved his life, whether that’s true, I don’t know, what I do know is that Frankie was a redheaded soundless child \u0026amp; after that he wouldn’t stop talking about almost dying but never gave me credit for discovering his body \u0026amp; the next week Jeremy launched himself off a swing set \u0026amp; his forearm bone shot through his bent wrist, I saw it, anyway, I heard the word fractured in a spelling bee so when I ran to tell Ms. Amy, I was set on flaunting my new vocabulary but the hard corners jutted into my cheeks \u0026amp; my memory went soft \u0026amp; so I just stood there stuttering about the skeleton \u0026amp; finally, when Ms. Amy found Jeremy in the grass, the word wriggled its way into my mouth \u0026amp; I shouted, It’s fractured! \u0026amp; Ms. Amy whipped \u0026amp; snapped, It’s so much more than that, but I was just happy to have spoken my new language \u0026amp; then there was the family of baby pink mice in the reading corner \u0026amp; Carl, my favorite custodian, had to remove them, but rumor has it that he gathered them in a sock \u0026amp; smashed them under a rock in the parking lot \u0026amp; I couldn’t look at him the same after that, based on my understanding he was a murderer of tiny things \u0026amp; we were tiny things, I remember, even then, understanding the smallness of myself, of all of us \u0026amp; the way we had to dodge \u0026amp; skip through the world like rodents under the boots of men, except for once, when Miguel went on vacation to Mexico \u0026amp; was killed in a collapsed cave \u0026amp; we planted him a tree but it was just a seedling, no taller than my right knee \u0026amp; when we all stood in a circle to wish him goodbye, I remember looking at the struggling plant, its wiry arms \u0026amp; frail trunk \u0026amp; feeling, for the first time, big.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e[my favorite pastime is watching the babysitter put her hair into a ponytail. she smooths it flat against her scalp \u0026amp; even when i think it must be perfect she smooths it again, gathers the overflow in her fist and removes a black elastic from her wrist, stretches and slaps till there’s no slack, splits the tail in two \u0026amp; yanks the arms apart, forehead skin strained taut against her skull, eyebrows pulled to an arch like a doll drawn happy.]\u003c\/p\u003eAuthor of New American Best Friend","brand":"Dial Press Trade Paperback","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299879440613,"sku":"NP9781984801906","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984801906.jpg?v=1767731438","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/life-of-the-party-isbn-9781984801906","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}