I’ve been teaching college writing with the First-Year Writing Program at Montclair State University for over 20 years now. In the fall semester, I usually teach College Writing I, and then in the spring semester, College Writing II; and while I love teaching both courses, the one thing I love the most is what I call the Invisible People Research Project, which is the third and final major essay students write in my College Writing II course. After we spend the first part of the semester reading and analyzing literature, articles, and videos about marginalized groups, students then choose a marginalized group that is near and dear to their hearts, about which they do intensive research. Their final objective is to write an essay that they will present to their peers that will, at the very least, raise awareness, and at the very most, change minds and/or hearts and possibly move some to action. It is a powerful assignment, and it has resulted in some of the best essays and presentations that students have written over the years. For me, it is proof that being invested in our work and empowered to be agents of change really matters. 

But this story isn’t about me; this story is about a poet named Miller Oberman. One of the literary works that I share with my class, when teaching this unit, is “On Trans” by Miller Oberman, a beautiful poem, that describes “transgendering” and passion with such passion, as Miller grapples with the challenge of trying to find the words to describe this experience, using a language that is inadequate. And so to make meaning and space for the speaker to insert themselves, he uses portmanteau, blending and creating words to transcend the limitations of the language that limits him. At least that’s how my students and I have come to understand it, mostly. My students are always in awe of the way that Oberman manipulates the language and makes space. I love the conversations that we’ve had about this poem and the discussions it has opened up about LGBTQ+ experiences and other marginalized experiences that our language does not accommodate. And so, one day after class, I shared it with my Instagram community, tagging Miller, who responded. From there, a connection and friendship were born. 

In addition to being an award-winning poet, Miller Oberman is the Program Director of First-Year Writing of the Eugene Lang College of Liberal Arts at The New School in New York.. In addition to all of that, he is a long-time notebook keeper and fountain pen lover. I am delighted to call him “friend,” grateful that he took the time out of his busy schedule to give me the opportunity to interview him for The Notebook People Project, and so happy that I get to introduce him to you.

MILLER OBERMAN 

As many of you already know, every Notebook People Project interview begins with a 10-question questionnaire, and even though the questions are all very simple, they each serve as opportunities for each person’s unique story to emerge. I am drawn to notebooks because I have always considered notebooks to be repositories for people’s innermost thoughts, ideas, fears, and hopes. I think that seeing someone’s notebook and learning about their processes brings me closer to knowing the mystery of a person. When I read Miller’s responses to the questions about when writing in a notebook had a positive impact on his life, I was so intrigued by his response that I wanted our interview to start there. Miller tells the story of his life with the kind of texture and richness that you would expect from an award winning poet, and so it is challenging to do it justice. I will attempt to share just a glimpse of how magical and powerful this human being is. 

He had a somewhat unique upbringing in that when he was young, he lived in a feminist, politically active, collective home. Along with his immediate family, his aunt and uncle and another couple also lived there, along with all of their children. The adults would take turns managing the different household and childcare responsibilities. His aunt and uncle played folk music, which seems fitting, and as I mentioned before, all of the adults in the home were very politically active as well, which, from what I know about Miller, has had a long-lasting impact on him. His family lived in this collective home until he was around ten years old, and during this time, Miller developed a very strong bond with his aunt, his mother’s sister.

He also had a strong connection with written language/words. As a child, young Miller, like so many of us who love to write, also loved to read, and he would take out as many books as the library permitted, each time he went. I laughed because he remembered that the exact number was thirteen. This would make him so angry, so to offset the book limit, he would choose the biggest books he could find, a sort of logic that makes perfect sense to fellow book lovers. 

His love for words and language eventually led him to take a creative writing class in high school, and it was in that class he kept a notebook other than the usual notebooks he used for his classes. And by now you’re probably wondering where all of this is leading, but trust me. This notebook was important because it’s the notebook that he had with him during one of the most difficult times in his young life. By that time in his life, the aunt with whom he’d grown up and to whom he was so close had moved to Florida, and then tragically, when he was 16 years old or so, she was diagnosed with an aggressive, terminal illness. Shortly after that diagnosis, Miller and his family boarded a plane to go and visit her for what they knew would likely be the last time, but she sadly died while they were en route. His grandparents told them the heartbreaking news upon their arrival and Miller was, as you can imagine, devastated. This was the most significant loss he’d ever experienced, and when he was sitting in the backseat of the car, on the way to his grandparents’ house, he was compelled to write. As he tells it,

For those of us who practice personal writing, whether consistently or consistently inconsistently, as Miller describes his journaling journey, it can be hard to imagine what our lives would be like without writing. I often wonder where I would be had I not been able to find refuge in writing, particularly during the more challenging times in my own life. It has been an invaluable and necessary way for me to process more difficult emotions and experiences. It is impossible to know the magnitude of its impact. But it is quite likely that that experience helped shape the course of his poetic life. 

He never stopped writing after that experience. It was at that point in his life, that the poet was born. He eventually moved on to using large black sketchbooks, where he’d draft his poems on the right side of the page and then revise the poem on the left side of the page. Then for about 10 years, he kept a calendar planner published by the Slingshot Collective, which is the publisher of a radical newspaper, as well as their annual radical calendar planner, as described on their website. These days, he uses Moleskine Cahier notebooks, which come in packs of three, and because he is consistently inconsistent, he explains that it might take him anywhere from a week to a year to finish one.

As for pens, Miller loves using fountain pens, and because he is a “streaky writer,” “streaky” not referring to the quality of the ink or paper, but rather to his irregularity when it comes to his writing practice, he needs a pen that is going to write readily, even if he hasn’t picked it up for three weeks. His favorite pen is one he calls “the pen that got away.” It was his late father’s Parker 75 in Thuya Brown. It was the perfect pen, but he hated the color. At some point, he connected with a pen collector and Parker 75 expert, who suggested that he keep the pen, but replace the case. So, he sold Miller a black case and he used and cherished that pen, which never failed to write smoothly and perfectly, until he one day dropped it while he was in his car. It rolled under the seat, never to be seen again. He explained, “If I believed in ghosts, I would have considered that an option, because it was just too weird.” The pen seemed to have vanished. These days he uses Lamy Safari, of which he has several, and a Kaweco fountain pen. He thinks about replacing the Parker 75, but struggles with it because the one that got away belonged to his father and a replacement just won’t be the same. It would not carry the same meaning. 

Perhaps that is what poets do, find unique and creative ways of making and assigning meaning. Maybe that’s what we all do. Miller continues to write poetry. His upcoming book of poetry, Impossible Things, which I have excitedly pre-ordered, will be released on October 22, 2024 by Duke University Press. The dates and locations of his upcoming book tour will be announced at a later date, but for those in the NY/NJ area, he will be at Unnameable Books in Brooklyn, NY on October 26th and Books are Magic, also in Brooklyn, on October 28th. I’m hoping to make it to the Unnameable Books on Saturday, October 26th, to meet Miller in person and have my copy signed. 

As I mentioned at the beginning of this story, I teach his poem, “On Trans,” in my class. But when I asked him what his favorite poem that he’d written was, he said it was his poem, “The Centaur.” In the “About this Poem” side notes on Poets.org, Miller explains, 

Miller's website is www.millerwolfoberman.com. In addition to his published books of poetry, some of his poems can be found online at www.poetryfoundation.org and www.poets.org.

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