Enter to win Bassey Ikpi's powerful memoir, 'I'm Telling The Truth But I'm Lying'
A little thank you for being a Foreign Bodies subscriber
Hey hey! It’s time for our next giveaway.
I’ll be sending one subscriber a new copy of Nigerian-American Bassey Ikpi’s incredibly moving memoir, I’m Telling The Truth But I’m Lying, packaged with a personal note from Bassey herself. Entries accepted through Friday, Nov. 29 at 11:59 p.m. EST.
About the prize
How do I even begin to describe the mind-blowing nature of Bassey’s essay collection? In her New York Times bestselling memoir, the former Def Poetry Jam wordsmith gives us an intimate portrait of what it’s like living with Bipolar II disorder—with fragmented, often unreliable memories. One of my favorite authors, Kiese Laymon, puts it perfectly: "We will not think or talk about mental health or normalcy the same after reading this momentous art object moonlighting as a colossal collection of essays.”
When you’re all done with the book, I recommend this interview:
An excerpt from the essay “It Has a Name” inside Bassey Ikpi’s I’m Telling The Truth But I’m Lying
I can’t remember if I said thank you or even goodbye. I just remember standing in front of Dr. Tiago’s building, the chill of New York winter attacking me. I looked down at the now-wrinkled paper in my hand. I recognized the address. It was near Barneys. Barneys, where I had blown many a paycheck. The shoe floor alone was a second home. I remember I wondered if maybe I should just go there instead.
Dr. Goodman’s office was in a posh, doormanned building on the East Side. An older woman in a fur coat so big she looked like a yeti was making her way out. I stared a bit too long when I noticed one of her sleeves had dark eyes staring back at me—a dog so small, it looked battery operated. She surveyed my own outfit as she passed, determining if I was someone who deserved a doormanned building and proximity to obnoxious fur coats. I looked down at the jeans hanging off my hips like a mistake. My black suede Pumas suddenly felt more Brooklyn than Upper West Side. I crossed my arms to shield myself from her judgment, suddenly feeling too poor and too Black to even be in her presence. Never mind that every- thing I wore was designer. My out-of-control shopping habit had high-end tastes but to the average observer, I looked sick. Too thin. Hollowed, blank eyes. Sunken face. It didn’t matter if I was wearing Prada or Payless.
The elevator to the eleventh floor was mirrored and slow. I couldn’t escape the refracted images of myself so I stared at my shoes, feeling my toes pressed against the leather. I had forgotten to put on socks. Or a coat. It was January.
The elevator ding brought me back to where I was and why. I was grateful to have the waiting room to myself. I took the seat furthest from the door. I needed the window to remind me that the outside world still existed. I grabbed a People magazine from the coffee table in front of me and thumbed through it before deciding that Time would probably make a better first impression. Maybe the magazines were a test. Time would definitely make me look more serious. Less crazy. If that was still possible. I stared at the magazine, trying to care about the recent science something of the biological some- thing else. I couldn’t, but before I could toss Time and pick up People again, a small pale man appeared at the waiting room entrance. He smiled at me and said, “I’m Dr. Goodman. You must be my three o’clock.”
I always loved how doctors did that, referred to you as the time of your appointment. My memory was a patchwork, and names and faces often fell through the holes in the stitching. I wished I could adopt a similar reference system: “Hi, you must be my four-p.m. conversation from last week.” I almost laughed to myself then remembered where I was. I needed to keep the self-talk at bay. I followed Dr. Goodman down a dark hall out of sync with the posh, door- manned building. The space in his office was cramped, every wall and bookshelf stuffed with hundreds—no, thousands—of books. There were more piled in various places in the room. Some looked dangerously close to toppling over.
“Have you read all these books?”
“Most of them,” he answered. “All of them actually. But over de- cades.”
“Wow.” I glanced around the room trying to pick out a book I recognized. Most were psychology texts and papers with plastic covers, but I spotted The Iliad and Dante’s Inferno.
Dr. Goodman pointed me to a leather couch near the window. I kept forgetting what I was here for.
“So,” he began. “Dr. Tiago said that you’ve been having some difficulties.”
About Foreign Bodies giveaways
Whenever I read a book I fall in love with, I’m driven to get everyone around me to taste a sprinkle of the magic. It’s your turn. These little surprise giveaways are my special way of thanking you for joining the Foreign Bodies family. I hope the books and collections I send your way make you feel a little more at home, or perhaps inspire you to learn a bit more about the myriad voices out there, voices we don’t get the privilege of hearing as often as we should.
Giveaway rules
Entrants must be free or paying readers of the Foreign Bodies Newsletter and must have a valid U.S. mailing address. You may only enter once and must use the email address affiliated with your account. Each entry will be assigned a number and winner(s) will be chosen using Google's random number generator. Paying subscriber entries will count twice. Winner(s) will be notified via email and your gift will come personally packaged in the mail.
Come January 2020, giveaways will remain a perk for paying subscribers only. While funding from The Carter Center helped build this newsletter, we need your help sustaining it. Here’s why we’re worth keeping around.
If you have any additional questions or concerns, please email 4nbodies@gmail.com.
Recommend a book!
Have a favorite immigrant-written book, collection of essays or poetry or what-have-you? Stories that made you feel understood? Stories about immigrant or refugee experiences, about mental illness? Send your recommendations—especially if it’s your own work. And check out the wealth of books and essays we already have up on foreignbodies.net!
Talk soon.
Love,
Fiza