Vivienne Orgel
Porter Gulch Review
30th Edition 2015
“Speak the needle
of your compass”page 9
30th Anniversary Edition
2015
Virginia Draper
Virginia Draper
WELCOME TO THE 30TH
ANNIVERSARY OF PORTER
GULCH REVIEW
Porter Gulch Review’s Editorial Board Picks:
Photography: Sydni Indman
Graphic Art: Summer Wallen
Prose: Josh Fox
Poetry: Geneffa Popatia Jonker
In your hands lies the 2015 Porter Gulch Review. After months of hard
work, we are proud to share this student-run project which features
prose, poetry, and artwork submitted by poets, novelist, photographers,
artists, and other eccentric individuals.
We accepted the challenge to create a journal that reflects the diversity
and creativity of our community. However, we are not limited to the confines of Santa Cruz County. In addition to many local talents, this edition
also features works from all over the world, including New York City,
Hungary, Berlin, and Nigeria.
Lastly, we’d like to express our gratitude to our professor and main facilitator David Sullivan, our sponsors, and everyone who submitted their
work this year. Thank you!
We hope you enjoy reading this edition of PGR as much as we enjoyed
creating it,
Editorial Board of the 2015 Porter Gulch Review.
We encourage everyone to submit work to PGR@cabrillo.edu; include
the attachment, your name, a short, playful bio and your contact information. Please visit http://www.cabrillo.edu/publications/portergulch/ for
further information.
PGR 4
THOUGHTS: 30 years? 30 years? That’s a long time to be serving the wider Cabrillo Community, and featuring the provocative, insightful, daring work of its members. I’m grateful to
all the authors, artists, photographers, students, fellow faculty, previous editors, and those who by their attentive eyes and
ears and hearts make space for this publication each spring—
(yes, you.) Welcome to this year’s ride! David Allen Sullivan
PGR 5
Author Table of Contents
The Algebra of a Day Sydney Gunther
8
Fingers of Rain
Lindsey Wayland
9
The Fig Drops, Opens Lisa Simon
10
Pass the Salt Marcia Moreland Adams
11
Una MuchachitaAdela Najarro
12
How Many Years? Barbara Raney
13
Cherokee in ExileStan Rushworth
14
For UjuDavid Ishaya Osu 21
Self-Awareness in the Modern Age
Dane Cervine
22
Unladen Heart nita24
Man on Fire
Christopher “Shay” O’Donnell
25
HungerTeresa Tristan
26
Waiting on the Clothesline
Teresa Tristan
27
The Lady
William Cass
28
Black Gloves Pegatha Hughes
38
On A Sunday Margie Curcio
39
I rememberJoan Maro
40
Self-Portrait at 23
Joan Maro
43
Sacramental Fragments Tom McKoy
44
Lapsang Souchong
Alanna Alter
45
Cinnabar Barbara Bloom
47
Where Sorrow Lives Magdalena Montagne
48
Their Voices Vered Manasse
50
How To Play Jazz Saxophone Dan Phillips
52
It was the year everything turned...
Julia Alter-Canvin53
I fell in love with the baker’s son
Margie Curcio
55
Give Me a Kiss to Build a Dream On Julia Alter-Canvin
59
OrphansMargie Curcio
60
Sister Marcia Moreland Adams
63
Wounded TeaTom McKoy
64
Pintándome El Pelo
Christopher Encarnacion
65
And...Margie Curcio
66
Injured, Sunday Night, Honduras David Thorn
68
Dyslexia Earns a Salad
Helene Simkin Jara
69
The Experiment
Emily Catalano
70
Traveling Back Lisa Simon
73
The Forbidden Language Barbara Leon
74
Think of the Children
Galen Savidge
75
“I’ve no paint to create a portrait…” Andy O. F.
83
This DanceBrian Bielefeld
84
Prickly Pear Janet Trenchard
86
Desert Ride Trisha O’Connor Kett
87
Wildfire Cheryl Gettleman
89
Mountains and Rivers Without End Magdalena Montagne
90
Moab, UtahKathryn deLancellotti
91
PGR 6
“Red Bull” Erich McIntosh
92
Modeling to make ends meet Robert Pesich
92
There’s a River Inside Her Eyes Sheriza
97
A Night On The Subway
Helene Simkin Jara
98
What if we took a breath… Marie Boucher
100
Suspension of Disbelief Reeva Bradley
104
The DoorJoan Maro
106
Grandmother’s TimeMarie Boucher
107
Three Strikes for Rutaganda Geneffa Popatia Jonker
108
Iraqi Currency Scheme
Jeff Wille
110
Hatchings Janet Trenchard
114
Enkidu
Alison Koffler
115
OVERKILLS. Rain Mathis
118
How Brightly Their Secrets Shine Rosie King
124
What Stars do TellJon Turner
125
VillageDan Jeffrey
126
At the Farmers’ Market Jeanie Greensfelder
128
Plague on Locust Street Ed Weingold
129
How To Untie Knots Christopher Encarnacion 132
Neophyte Settlement Joan Maro
133
Day 12 (afternoon): Grytviken
Dan Linehan
134
Water Lydia Bashor
138
Jumping Ship Victor Henry
139
The BootVictor Henry
140
The Book of Rejections J. Zimmerman
141
Learning to Speak Poetry Magdalena Montagne
142
Gravity Sheila Siegel
144
Milk in My Cup Lisa Simon
146
LimboJosh Fox
148
Thieves’ Refuge La’akea Sky Smith 155
A Story of Bubbles and Balloons Marina Romani
156
The House Helene Simkin Jara
158
“Tomorrow I will be old”
Andy O. F. 160
Deep Sleep Cheryl Gettleman
161
Her HouseDebra Spencer
162
The Body Fails Us! Leilani Jefferies
164
How We Endure Louise Berliner
165
That PoetJoan Maro
167
Poems Are Rebellious Things Roland Ruby
168
Prayer to the Republicans
Ken Weisner
169
The PrisonerStan Rushworth
171
Raven Sass
Rosie King
179
Orders for My Book of the Dead
Catherine Segurson
181
Bios of Authors and Artists
182
List of Sponsers191
Student critiques of PGR published authors194
Student book reviews235
PGR 7
Artist
Table of
Contents
Joe Doudna
PGR 8
Sydni Indman Front and Back Cover
Vivienne Orgel 1
Virginia Draper
2
Virginia Draper
3
Joe Doudna
6
Joe Doudna
9
Peggy Hansen Hoshigaki
10
Marie Boucher
12
Janet Trenchard
17
KOAK
18
KOAK 19
Kit Birskovich
20
Clarisa Chisum
21
Diane Patrucuola
23
Tracee Zyla
23
KOAK23
KOAK24
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
25
Katie Holman
26
Andrew Barker
27
Alissa Goldring
28
Clarisa Chisum
38
Azaz Nurcan
41
KOAK42
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
43
Eric Hasse
46
Eric Hasse
47
Summer Wallen
51
Nate Weir
52
Peggy Hansen Iceland
54
Kelly M. Woods
54
Sydni Indman
55
Sydni Indman
57
Sydni Indman
58
Jacob Mann
61
Allan Winans
63
Summer Wallen
64
Clarisa Chisum
65
Joe Doudna
66
Joe Doudna
67
Diane Patrucuola
72
Joe Doudna
75
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
81
Sydni Indman
84
Diane Patrucuola
85
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
86
Andrew Barker
88
Peggy Hansen Snow Plant
89
Nate Weir
91
Summer Wallen
92
Natalie Yang
93
Azaz Nurcan
94
Sydni Indman
95
Davis Banta
96
Robyn Marshall
97
KOAK103
Nate Weir
105
KOAK
108
KOAK109
KOAK112
Sydni Indman
114
Joe Doudna
117
Ferdd Lansang
122
KOAK123
Joe Doudna
125
Peggy Hansen Death Valley
127
Peggy Hansen, Hachiya
128
Azaz Nurcan
129
Vivian Quevedo
132
Vivienne Orgel
133
Virginia Draper
135
Virginia Draper
138
Vivian Quevedo
140
Diane Patrucuola
143
Clarisa Chisum
145
Joe Doudna
147
KOAK149
Joe Doudna
150
Vivian Quevedo
157
KOAK
158
Azaz Nurcan
159
Alissa Goldring
160
KOAK163
Azaz Nurcan
165
KOAK166
KOAK170
Azaz Nurcan
173
Sydni Indman
175
Sydni Indman
178
KOAK179
Azaz Nurcan
180
Sydni Indman
185
Marie Boucher
189
Matt Nolan
192
PGR 9
The Algebra of a Day
Sydney Gunther
Given:
news that something has been cancelled;
news that something else has been planned;
news that a friend has accomplished something great;
and news that someone you love will be leaving.
Solve.
Algebraically:
(SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO) (SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO) = 0
and
(A LOVED ONE) - (A LOVED ONE) = 0
therefore:
0 + 0 = (A BAD DAY)
Actually:
(SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO) (SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO)
= (STILL SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO)
and
(SOMEONE TO CONGRATULATE) +
(SOMEONE TO SAY GOODBYE TO)
= 2(PEOPLE TO CELEBRATE)
Therefore,
(SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO)
+
2(PEOPLE TO CELEBRATE)
=
(AN EXTRAORDINARILY GOOD DAY)
PGR 10
Fingers of Rain
Joe Doudna
Lindsey Wayland
It is useless to seek the answers.
You can never know each rain blossom
in the whole sky over the whole earth thoroughly.
All that exists is the smell of the soil
after it has stormed,
the wetness across your face.
Speak the needle of your compass.
Outside, everything moves still.
Outside, the moon and the dew drops
cycle and circle
around the buoyant meadows,
the beaches and driftwood.
Outside each finger of rain—arched altitude
cracks open our sky.
Oh, each of you—however lost—
is offered the incredibly small fingers of rain,
the gentle gift of softness,
fingers outstretched, questions unveiled,
inviting you to dance
at home in the whole of it all.
PGR 11
The Fig Drops, Opens
Pass the Salt
I see the drip and dazzle
in the fig’s fine seeds
arranged like a mouth
plush in greed for the day
as if the fig itself
fed upon the world,
and not the other way around.
As if the fig grew fat and purple
in the heavy music
of the leaves’ underworld.
Below, the slug and beetle
work the morning’s damp.
Above are the chimes—
the hummingbirds and the great bees
arcing and swimming
within the feast of leaves,
among the dark, swinging figs.
Lisa Simon
Marcia Moreland Adams
Remember Lot’s Wife
Jesus Christ—Luke 17.32
Let’s talk about Lot’s wife.
Remember her? The gal
with no name of her own.
Mrs. Lot, the lady who
looked back at Sodom
and Gomorrah in spite
of what the angels said
then found herself
turned to a pillar of salt.
Peggy Hansen Hoshigaki
I’ve been doing a lot
of looking back,
combing through strands
of family history
tangled with polygamists,
overwrought Puritans
a few accused witches.
Some days there are angels
buzzing around my brain,
pesky little devils singing
Dylan’s Don’t look back
as I’m about to savor
another salacious tidbit.
It’s then I recall
the lot that befell
Mrs. Lot and I say
to hell with the angels,
pass the damned salt.
PGR 12
PGR 13
How Many Years?
Barbara Raney
Occasionally when I tell people
I taught at a segregated high school in Selma, Alabama, in the late 60’s,
they sigh with a kind of admiration.
To a slightly syncopated beat,
I try to remember what was different:
halls without light or enough lockers,
a gymnasium with most of the windows missing,
huge home-made cinnamon rolls in the morning,
sweet potato pie at lunch,
whole chicken leg sandwiches,
over-age students extorting money in the bathrooms,
cattle prod scars on beautiful young backs.
Una Muchachita
Marie Boucher
Adela Najarro
You see it’s me I saw on a signpost in Michigan. El corazon es rojo
y suda lagrimas. Luuuucky. The name of my cat.
Black and white with a heart. La flor. El caracol.
La puerta estaba abierta. I looked upon the sun and wondered...
Big bright yellow thing in the sky. Sol
is sun. One word for something so big. The language in me.
“Is not enuf for yu?” No. No. I’m a little girl. Una muchachita.
Take it like a man! An American! Stand up.
Sit down. Fight. Fight. Fight. But I don’t talk like you.
I don’t think like you. That means I don’t know nothing. ¿Sí?
See? Which language? Yes? If I can catch the words
will you give me a job as a singer in a band? A marching band
on the Fourth of July. Red, white and blue are the colors that stand
for you. But me rhymes with flea. La cucharacha ya no pudo caminar.
He got stoned and was squashed by a Texan’s steel toe boot.
PGR 14
Mostly, I remember what was the same:
dating/intimacy problems,
overly controlling parents,
awakening to Shakespeare and Du Bois,
the arrival of SAT scores,
inadequate funding,
academics vs. athletics,
rapport and progress.
Then, on April 4, 1968, you were shot in Memphis.
By noon, young activists wearing overalls arrived in Selma
from the east coast.
They ran down the halls
saying “Don’t you want freedom rather than education?”
They wanted us to go to the streets
to re-live the Selma to Montgomery march.
Had they not read anything you said?
Did they not know what you believed?
By the middle of the afternoon
I joined shoulders with many of my seniors
and made a chain to push those
Yankees out of our school.
PGR 15
Cherokee in Exile
Stan Rushworth
Civilization, or extinction, has been the fate of all people who have found themselves in the
track of advancing Whites, and civilization, always the preference of the Whites, has been
pressed as an object, while extinction has followed as a consequence of its resistance.
Thomas Hart Benton, promoting Manifest Destiny
on the floor of the Senate, May 28, 1846.
My four year old son sat in the red Trooper in front of the coffee shop eating
a banana, while I got out to gather our shopping bags from the back seat next
to him. An elderly woman who was parked next to us slowly backed out,
creeping carefully toward the nose of a light blue Jaguar sedan waiting for her
space. It’s always this way in this lot, with too many shops for the number of
parking places. The Jaguar inched back just far enough to let her out, and she
turned toward Soquel Drive and pulled away slowly.
Just as she turned onto the street, only forty feet away, a silver Audi swung
in quickly off the road and slid into the parking space. The driver glanced
in his rear view mirror at the waiting nose of the Jag, then looked down to
take off his seat belt and begin opening the door to step out. He was a tightly
muscled man in his very early fifties, with the kind of bulky muscles that
come from working in the gym, in a tight white tee shirt and high sleeves
that showed off a Celtic ring tattoo. When he was halfway out of his car, the
Jaguar driver leaned his head out the window and called out to him.
“That’s my parking place,” he hollered, easy with the first words then
offended by the time the whole sentence was out of his mouth.
The Audi driver shrugged and said, “Sorry about that,” but kept on getting
out. “There’s other places to park,” he said. Of course there might not be, and
the guy would at least have to circle around again to find one.
“I said that’s my parking place,” the Jag driver said, hard now, but not as
loudly since the other man was only ten feet or so from the nose of the Jag by
now, standing. The Jag driver still sat in his car.
“I’m here now,” the Audi driver said, standing to his full stature, holding
his position with his stance. He didn’t flex like Wolverine, but the intention to
intimidate was there, in the parking lot in Aptos on a warm spring day. Crazy
stuff.
There was a pause, a calm before the storm, and my son stopped eating his
banana and looked at me, wondering at the change in atmosphere. Little kids
feel these things, and the Audi man was only a few feet from him, so his body
pulled inward and his eyes opened as he reached up for me with both arms.
“Hey. Old man,” the words came hot and heavy. “Get back in your car and
get out of my spot.” A heavily muscled bare arm with a thrusting finger came
out of the Jag’s open window, a now livid and darkly tanned face sticking out
of the window even further.
PGR 16
“Chill out, man. It’s only a parking place,” the Audi man said, but he was
not quite as solid. Maybe he’d miscalculated.
People stood and watched for a moment then hustled away, eyes downcast.
I reached across the back seat and gathered my boy in my arms, dragging
his legs over the console and the half eaten banana, and left the door open. I
kept my eyes on both men as I backed away slowly and steadily from my car
toward the nearest wide cement column holding the roof over the walkway.
The Jaguar driver stepped out of his car into a broad stance and thrust his
finger again, pumping his arm. He worked out in the gym too, a bigger man
all over, and his stance was more convincing, like he worked on a bag or in a
ring. He wore a tenement tee, and was tattooed on both shoulders, not with a
Celtic ring but with something more ominous and uncontrolled, like he was
a one percenter in a baby blue Jaguar and a green tenement tee. It fit but it
didn’t, at the same time, like Harley riding accountants standing outside a
hot valley gas mart in five hundred dollar squeaky clean leathers, weekend
outlaws, dream outlaws with grim faces. But though the colors didn’t fit, the
baby blue and the pastel green, nor the place (unless a close look into the
violence of this town’s history was taken into account), this guy was very
nearly over the edge of himself.
“Look, old man. Get the…back in your car, and get the…out of my…
parking place, before I wipe up this… parking place with your…face,” he
shouted. There were five exploding “f-bombs” in his threat, now all across
the parking lot, words I omit in an attempt to make this story civil. He was
shaking and his eyes glowed. He had the edges of “the look,” but I could see
he’d never been there, at least not yet, but that he wanted to be there, over the
edge with righteous violence, in a war movie, but he was here, in the parking
lot, in Aptos, in front of a “f-ing” health food store, surrounded by Priuses and
Minis and small Mercedes, with people buying herbs and organic food only
steps away from his rage and potency.
I reached the column and went behind it, glancing over my shoulder toward
further cover, but I kept my eyes on the men. I thought of the two drivers who
had raced each other over the pass only a few months earlier, dicing back and
forth, then one pulled off the freeway and waited for the other, with a hidden
pistol. When the second man stopped, for who knows what reason, the first
shot him dead. It was a traffic thing, both their cars costing far more than a
year’s salary for a teacher, or anyone else in community service. “Welcome to
civilization,” I think at these times, like when a young man bumps his way
in front of an old person in the line at Safeway. It’s those kinds of things,
one seeming small, another bending the mind so far around itself trying to
understand that it just ends up in a perplexed and angry knot. Where are the
seeds to these kinds of things, and how old are they? How prevalent are they
in different forms? Is there something to think about here, or are these simple
aberrations, unconnected collateral damage issues?
The men stared at each other, and it quickly became easy to see who might
PGR 17
come out on top, at least physically, if it came to that. There was size and age,
of course, and musculature, but that would not matter at all if the experience
had been there. But it wasn’t with either one of them, so sheer brutishness
seeped toward triumph. It seeped, but it didn’t leap, for they were now fully
their own audience, and it had to taper off with some kind of internal face
saved. There had to be an “I shoulda,” or “I coulda,” on the inside. Still, one
never knows when the hammer might fall once it’s pulled back. Either one
could have reached into the car and pulled out a life changer, so the parking
lot had to wait for them, two dangerous bulls in an asphalt pasture, to find
their balance. There had to be a silence when even the birds waited for the
modern seething world to try to find its sanity.
My son clung to me tightly, his face turned toward the men. I waited and
watched quietly, and then it was over. The world breathed change and mercy
into the day when no one was looking, just waiting with shuttered eyes. It
was a sudden and unexplainable shift in the air.
The Audi man mumbled something, got back in his car, pulled out and left.
His face was sweating, and I thought of all the people who would meet him
from that moment on; his wife, his kids, his employees, a waiter or waitress.
It made me sad and even worried for someone I didn’t know in a near future,
like a momentum would build, something spinning off to who knows where.
The Jaguar man got back in his car, pulled forward into the open space next
to us, sat for a moment, then got out and stretched. I moved forward, shut my
car door, and we looked at each other across the red hood of the Trooper. He
was still jacked up, wound tight, but it was falling off him and he shifted from
foot to foot dealing with it. He registered me holding my boy, and the child’s
eyes staring widely at him alongside my gaze. I looked without judging, but
in dismay. But maybe that’s a kind of judgment, because he tilted his head
back and spoke across the hood towards me, a pleading kind of strong man’s
wail, like he was talking to himself through me.
“You think I came on too strong?” he asked too loudly, and I glanced quickly
around the lot, as parents with kids began to return out of the shadows, and
women alone with shopping bags, and elders, slowly began to emerge into
the sun again. What had quickly become a desert now began to fill in with
color and people again. I gathered it in with a glance and handed it to him as
gently as I could.
“Ya think?” I said. Moments like these make me know I’m a Cherokee in exile, very far from
my natural home in the deepest ways possible, a stranger in my own, occupied
land and time. And like an elder said one day not long ago, “Unfortunately,
there is no other America to go to.” We are living in a strange kind of thing,
a manifestation of someone else’s destiny, without much choice in the matter
called Freedom.
PGR 18
Janet Trenchard
PGR 19
KOAK
PGR 20
PGR 21
For Uju
David Ishaya Osu
Kit Birskovich
PGR 22
because rains gave the garden a new dress
he shopped
for only honeyballs
from the eden’s
skyline
just to bear a surname the music of her motions
to wear an age longer than love
but to live in the same funeral home
together
alive during teas and beans
Clarisa Chisum
PGR 23
Self-Awareness in the Modern Age
Dane Cervine
The sperm whale has the largest brain of anyone,
and John Lilly, a scientist, reckoned
it the greatest philosopher on Earth.
Of course, this was the Sixties
Tracee Zyla
when god-whales and divine dolphins
were as common as female activists wishing to make love to them,
dressed in skin-tight leotards, mouths brightly rouged
to help the cetaceans read their lips up close. John
would invite them all in—scientists, women—to study
self-awareness,
stimulate the brains of dolphins, engage
in cortical mapping, see how human they are.
Intelligence
assuming humans as the standard,
which was confusing since U.S. Navy funds
helped build the facility where the military hoped to train
dolphins to carry bombs.
Diane Patrucuola
Ignoring his funders, John took LSD
suspended in a flotation tank, injected dolphins
with the hallucinogen to see if they too
might become enlightened. Or perhaps
already were, and were humoring us
along the way?
In response, two young males
—Delphi & Pan—
deliberately positioned themselves
in front of a large mirror suspended in water,
watched themselves pretend copulation,
doggy-style. Impeccable dolphin grins
just begging poor John to interpret
this slippery question of intelligence,
and enlightenment, and irony.
PGR 24
KOAK
PGR 25
Unladen Heart
nita
She longed to twist off her blouse
and rip the ties that bound her breast
The oppression and the repression—
that symbol for all to see
of ball and chain
of yoke and harness
to fling upon the pyre
tangled in nylon and hooks and bands
and then to turn upon her heel and walk away
liberated and liberating
And upon those ruins of soot and ash;
of smoky litter and fiery slag;
of smoldering waste and tattered ire;
first a mewling
then a wail
then silence.
That baby.
That me.
Man on Fire
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
Christopher “Shay” O’Donnell
—based on Man on Fire, by Luis Jimenez
Silence, we will always be kept under it. I’m no person who could ever make
a voice strong. So many are suppressed by the way society is painted. So for
me, I’ll create my canvas and create these dreams. My life and what it can turn
into is something beyond and great that will be able to take off that barrier.
It’s not like I can change you. Or change the ways you think. But that book
can, that institution can, and that president can change the way you think,
that rapper will show what’s cool, that friend knows what’s best. That money
will make you happy. You’ll buy these things, you will drink this to feel good,
you smoke that to escape. We’re all on fire as we speak. And what will it take
to put it out?
PGR 26
KOAK
PGR 27
Hunger
Teresa Tristan
Tonight, I sit in front of a child who
cleans sauce off his plate with
the hard end of a piece of bread.
He stuffs it in his mouth, meat mush
dripping from the corner of his smile,
a flick of the tongue savors it back
inside. Sometimes, he says,
I feel like the room spins. He eyes
the red russet potatoes on my plate,
dressed in parsley, edges frayed
with butter. I push the warm ceramic
plate towards him, he pierces
the soft belly of the root with his fork,
filling it to the brim. Flavor extends
in his cheeks, two overfilled
water balloons waiting to burst.
Andrew Barker
Katie Holman
Waiting on the Clothesline
Teresa Tristan
There was something relaxing about hanging up
damp clothes, in the quiet of spring, on the clothesline
my father put up in the backyard. Something about
squeezing the clothes pin, watching its mouth open,
eager to bite the wet-dry sock I placed at its lips.
This was me at fourteen, waiting on the clothesline.
Waiting for something I couldn’t give a name to,
something I didn’t know existed. For a few moments,
under the blue kiss of the sky, there was nothing
but the wind caressing my skin, the sunflowers
bowing their heads from the weight of the sun,
the squeak of empty swings decaying in the corner.
PGR 28
PGR 29
The Lady
William Cass
PGR 30
Alissa Goldring
Reginald Kennedy sat in his car as it idled in his driveway and stared
at the ring on his finger. It had been there for over sixty. He reached up and
slid the ring forward and revealed a band of pale white skin, smiled, and slid
it back. He let out a sigh and reached out and gripped the passenger side part
of the bench seat and gave it a soft squeeze.
He stayed that way for a moment before he stepped out of his car and
felt his old bones creak in protest as he straightened up. He was in his nineties
and he had been starting to forget quite a few things these past years, but
lucky for him, his car was full of dents and bends, each of which told their
own story. He laughed and smiled as he looked down at the first one his car
ever collected.
The chip in the paint on the front driver side door:
Two important events happened on Dec 17th 1958. The first was a
twenty something Reggie Kennedy pulled out the dealership in a new 1957
Ford Fairlane Skyliner. It was fire engine red and had a retractable hard top
which was the coolest thing the young man had ever seen. He had dubbed the
car The Lady.
The second thing that happened on that day was a chance encounter
with the world’s most perfect woman. Reggie pulled up in front of Miller’s
Pharmacy to meet up with his friends. One half of the business was reserved
for people picking up prescriptions and the other half was a fountain where
the younger crowd hung out during the day.
Reggie swung the door open and waltzed inside. He heard his friends
before he saw them and made his way to the far end of the counter. He started
to bob and weave his way through the large crowd, passing faces he knew
and gave them the standard greeting of “hey.” He was almost all the way to
the end of the fountain, almost to his friends and another later afternoon of
soda and hanging out. He had almost made it to where his friends waited for
him with some new story or witty joke. He was one group of people away
when someone caught his eye.
Reggie had seen beautiful women before and he always had the same
reaction. He’d smile, nod, flirt if acceptable, and move on. Once in a while the
flirting would go especially well and he’d get a date out of it. But this time
he couldn’t stick to his usual game plan. He stopped mid stride, one leg still
hanging in the air, and stared with his jaw hanging open.
The woman noticed right away and slid her mouth off her straw and
looked up at him.
“May I help you?” The woman’s soft, sweet voice wafted in Reggie’s
ears.
He tried to find the right words, but they wouldn’t come to him. He
wanted to recite Lord Byron to her. He wanted to light up a cigarette, sit down
on a stool in front of her, and say:
“She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry
skies.”
But all he managed to say was:
“Uh..”
He heard his own voice as a low rumble that signified his ineptitude.
The woman stared at him through the locks of curly auburn hair the
fell in front of her face like a summer’s veil. She locked on to him with her
bright blue eyes which were cradled by her high cheek bones.
Reggie felt like he was going to be sick. He always had a way with
words and all he could do was make guttural noises at this woman? He took
that moment and said a prayer. He prayed that something would happen.
Something, anything, had to make it less awkward.
“Reggie! What the heck are you doing?” A loud male voice cut through
the prayer in Reggie’s head.
He looked around and saw his best friend Tony as he walked up to him
and clasped him on the shoulder. Reggie smiled at his friend, but couldn’t do
more than that. Tony just didn’t matter at that moment. Reggie turned back
and looked at Dodie and smiled again.
“Oh, hey Mary, what’s up?” Tony’s voice was one part surprise mixed
with an equal measure of excitement.
The young woman that stood next to Dodie turned around and sighed.
It was a sound somewhere between exasperation and laugh.
“Hey Tony, I was wondering when you were going to notice me
standing here all by my lonesome.” She feigned offense and looked away as if
PGR 31
confronted by a jilted lover.
“All by your lonesome?” Dodie spoke up and Reggie felt his heart rate
increase. “So what am I? Just a stand in for some guy?” She pouted her ruby
red lips and Reggie gulped so loud he was afraid the whole town heard it.
“You can talk to this guy!” Mary pointed to Reggie with her thumb,
winked at him, and grabbed Tony by the arm and the two walked off.
Reggie cleared his throat and, for the first time since he saw her, said
real words in a cohesive sentence. “So, I guess it’s just us, then.” He beamed
with pride over his ability to put words together.
“Oh, so you can speak.” Dodie said with a blank expression on her
face. She managed to hold that look long enough to make Reggie sweat. It
was only then she chuckled and her face brightened up into a smile. “I’m
just teasing you.” She took a long drink from her soda, looking at him as she
sipped from her straw.
“I’m Reggie.” He offered.
“I gathered that from what your friend said.” She motioned to Tony
with her head. “I’m Dodie.” She offered Reggie her hand and he took it and
held it. She looked at him, then down at her hand. “You know, you’re supposed
to shake a hand when it’s offered to you.”
“Oh!” Reggie shook her hand harder than he had planned to in an
effort to make up for his slight. “Sorry.”
“Or you could just use it as an excuse to hold my hand, I guess. But we
did just meet and I don’t move that fast.” She winked at him. Her voice was
laced with mischief.
Reggie had been captivated by Dodie on sight, but now, mere minutes
into their meeting, he was in love.
The two talked for the better part of an hour before Dodie had to go.
Reggie wasn’t left empty handed though. His grin started at one ear and made
the long trip down and around his face to the other ear as he looked down at
her number that she wrote on a napkin and slipped in his jacket pocket when
she left.
When Reggie exited the Pharmacy he was hot mess of boyish glee and
puppy love. He was looking at the world through Dodie colored glasses. The
sky was suddenly the same blue as her eyes. The bark of every tree was the
brown of her hair and the The Lady was the same red as her lips. His head was
so far in the clouds that he forgot how close he had parked to a lamppost and
threw his door open and took a nice chunk out of the paint as well as putting
a dent in the door. Reggie was too in love to care.
*
Reggie looked up and away from the car and towards his house. He saw
Dodie watching him through the kitchen window. The couple smiled at each
other. Reggie walked around the car and smiled at the dents and scratches.
Each memory came flooding back to him. He remembered when Dodie was
pregnant with their first child which caused the ash burn on the driver’s seat.
PGR 32
He remembered their first big fight which ended in a slightly bent rear view
mirror. He stopped when he reached the end of the passenger’s side. The end
of Dodie’s side of the car.
*
The crooked script on the rear passenger side: Reggie’s hand spent
most of the night going in and out of his pocket and gripping the small black
box that he had purchased two weeks before. They had gone on six dates
since then and each time he tried to work up the courage to ask her and each
time he came up with some excuse. He was scared. It was as easy as that. Dodie had gone to the bathroom and Reggie took the box out of his
pocket and his sweaty hands produced the gold band with the tiny diamond
attached to it. He considered, for a moment, if he should wait and propose
outside. Maybe even outside her door.
Reggie shook his head. He was going to ask her tonight and he was
going to do it the moment she got back. He frowned down at the small
diamond. He had wanted a bigger rock. He wanted one that would shine
so bright that Dodie would need to wear sunglasses. But he couldn’t afford
anything like that.
Before he could close the box he heard a soft gasp. Reggie’s eyes shot up
and across the table and he saw Dodie standing there with her hand covering
her mouth and her wide eyes were glistening.
“Reggie.” It was all she could manage to choke out. Her eyes were
glued to the small sparking ring.
He stared at her, then looked down at the ring in his hand, then back
up at her. He wanted to rewind time. He wanted to start over. This wasn’t
how he had planned it at all. This wasn’t in his perfect vision.
Reggie felt his resolve burst out of his insecurity and snap him into
shape. This was his time. He was going to ask her to marry him and he
couldn’t wait for some perfect moment that may never come. Reggie stood up
and preformed the moves he’d been practicing since he bought the ring. The
butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach vanished as he dropped
down to one knee. He reached up and grabbed Dodie’s hand and smiled.
“Dodie, I—”
“Yes!” She burst out and cut him off.
Reggie blinked at her. He hadn’t even finished his question yet. He
hadn’t even proposed yet. Not technically anyway.
“Oh.” Dodie’s hands once again flew to her face and she covered her
mouth to stifle a laugh. “I’m so sorry!” She chuckled. She cleared her throat
and got rid of the giggles. She danced around a bit as if she were getting back
into character. “I’m ready. Please continue.”
“Oh, sorry, I... uh.” Reggie coughed and shook his head. “Dodie.” He
started and she unfolded her arms. “When we met I knew right away that...”
He paused and considered his words. “Aw, heck. Dodie, will you marry me?”
Dodie’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s it? All this build up for that?” PGR 33
“I had the whole thing planned out but you went and cut me off and
got me all flustered and now it all seems like so many words.” Reggie stood
up and closed the gap between the two. “I love you, you know I do. And you
love me, I know you do.” He held the ring in front of her. “I love you and I
want you to be my wife.” He reached down and took hold of her left hand
and brought it up. “I want to get a place together and I want to raise a family
with you.” He smiled and gazed into her eyes. “I want us to all the wonderful
couple stuff that we already do, but I want to do it as man and wife.” He held
the ring in front of her finger. “What do you say?”
Dodie wiped a tear from her eye with her free hand and smiled. “I
believe I’ve already answered that question.” She chuckled.
“Refresh my memory.”
Dodie leaned forward to kiss him. “Yes.”
The whole restaurant exploded into a roar of cheers and whistles and it
brought the couple back to reality. Dodie blushed so bright that she matched
the engine down at the fire station. Reggie felt his own cheeks flush and he
thrust his hands into his pockets.
The couple escaped back to their seats after giving a few obligatory
waves to the cheering mass of people and then hunkered down and did their
best to keep a low profile. The rest of the night went by as smooth as any
normal dinner would have with the exception of free Champagne from the
management and a complimentary chocolate soufflé from the chef. They left the restaurant an hour later and so full that the mere thought
of more food was enough to make them explode. Reggie drove her home and
the two spent more time than usual kissing before they called it a night. He
had her leaning against the car as they enjoyed each other’s company and the
only sound besides their breathing was that of Dodie’s leather purse rubbing
against The Lady. When they were satisfied that the proper number of kisses
were exchanged, Reggie stepped away and made way for his soon-to-be wife
to walk up to her front door. His fiancé took one step away from the car and
there was a loud pop and the high pitched ding of something metal falling to
the asphalt. Dodie spun around and gasped and Reggie had to walk around
her to see what had happened. The script on the rear passenger side that
read Fairlane 500 had been yanked off and sat on the ground as cold and sad
as an abandoned puppy. Reggie’s eyes went wide and he felt a sick lump in
his stomach flare to life and threaten to make his expensive dinner come back
up. The street was silent.
“Oh, my God.” Dodie stammered. “Reggie, I’m so sorry.” She said
without looking at him. Her eyes were glued to the bare metal that showed
where the script had popped off and her hands were trembling.
Reggie could see three holes where pins had held the metal writing in
place. He would have cried if he could have, but he was in too much shock. He
had managed to keep the number of imperfections on the car to a minimum
PGR 34
and it had become a personal goal of his. He could live with the first accident
that marred his beautiful car, but this one would have to be fixed. He had
some superglue in the garage. This was going to be okay. He looked over at
Dodie and smiled.
“It’s okay, sweetie.” He put his arm round her. “Nothing some glue
can’t fix.”
She stood and stared at him for a moment before she gave in to a smile
and a nod. “Okay, sorry.” Her voice grew soft with her apology.
Reggie hugged his fiance tighter. He was upset, but he would get over
it. He was engaged now, and nothing could tear him from that high.
The happy couple kissed one last time before Dodie took the long walk
to her front door. She turned around, smiled at him, mouthed the word sorry
again and disappeared into her house.
Reggie watched after her for a little longer before he turned around,
bent over, and picked up the script. He slid it in his pocket and let out a long
sigh before he got into his car and headed home.
Later the next day he dug through his garage drawers and found his
tube of super glue and put the script back on. He took his time to measure it,
cleaned the area of any loose particles, and checked and double checked his
placement before he put it on the car. He placed the script on The Lady and
sighed a breath of relief. He allowed himself a smug smile and he released the
script and stepped away to admire his work. His pride lasted until he saw the
script was crooked.
*
The smile hung on Reggie’s face as he completed his lap around the
car. He looked up as he heard doors close and saw his daughter and twentyfive year old grandson walking towards him. His heart beat with anticipation.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket, but they caught on his pants and fell to
the ground. Reggie bent over to pick them up and came eye to eye with the
latest injury to The Lady. The reason all this was happening.
* The dent in the front bumper: Reggie’s knees threatened to buckle as
he climbed into The Lady after a long day of walking around Golden Gate
Park. He was in his nineties and the last of his friends who could still tackle
something as exhausting as walking around museums all day. It was Reggie
and Dodie’s sixty-fifth wedding anniversary and the couple decided that their
days of jetting off across the country for a week in New York or Florida were
far behind them so they opted to drive to San Francisco, get a room, and spend
a few days there.
Dodie hadn’t lost a step and she had the two of them hit every sight the
park had to offer. They started their anniversary trip with a walk through the
aquarium, hit the tea garden for lunch, and finished it with a tour of the art
museum. The day would have just been starting had they still been in their youth,
PGR 35
but the grey haired couple knew their next stop was the hotel for an afternoon
nap before grabbing dinner at the fanciest restaurant they could find with an
early bird menu.
Dodie chattered away as Reggie turned the car on and did a mirror
check. He glanced right, then left, then up at the rear view mirror, and
frowned. He did the check one more time, this time through squinted eyes,
and frowned again. For the life of him, he couldn’t make out what was behind
him. When he walked into the parking garage he could have sworn there was
one of those large obnoxious SUV’s behind him, but now he couldn’t tell if it
was a car, or if it was a pillar cast in shadows.
“Honey, is everything okay?” Dodie’s voice was laced with concern
“I’m fine.” He growled. He wasn’t trying to sound angry or gruff, more
often than not, it was how his voice came out. It was something he chalked up
to getting old.
Dodie nodded, but the look of concern didn’t leave her face.
Reggie turned the car on and put it in gear. He knew his tired eyes were
just playing tricks on him and that the SUV was still back there. He eased The
Lady out of the spot and he noted that it took substantially longer to back out
than it did to pull in. Each time he thought he had backed up enough to clean
the car next to him, he wound up having to go back into reverse and try again.
He could see Dodie watching him out of the corner of his eye. He knew his
wife was just concerned about him. It seemed like she was always concerned
about him lately.
Reggie finally made it out of the spot and drove off towards the exit.
He ground his teeth in frustration. He was an old man, had been for a while,
but he didn’t need to be watched like a hawk.
He took his time driving through the parking garage to the exit just like
he took his time going everywhere else. Young him would have thrown a fit if
he saw how his beautiful car was being driven. Reggie smiled.
The exit sign came into view and Reggie found himself squinting again.
He couldn’t tell which way the arrow was pointing. He slowed down even
more and looked left, then right. It all looked the same to him. He turned right
because it just felt right. He saw Dodie tilt her head to the side.
“Where are you going?” Dodie’s voice was louder this time and the
concern was more prominent.
“I’m trying to find the way out.” He tried his best not to growl.
“Sweetie, the arrow was pointing back that way.” She pointed behind
them with her thumb.
“Guess I misread that sign.” He brushed the matter off like it was a
simple mistake.
Dodie didn’t say anything but she still didn’t take her eyes off him. Reggie cursed himself under his breath as he navigated the parking
structure. How could he misread something so simple? He made his way
back to the sign and paused to look both ways and to get a second look. Reggie
PGR 36
frowned. He still couldn’t tell which way the arrow was pointing. He turned
to the left and made his way towards the pay station and parked his car to get
out and pay. That part, thankfully, was a smooth process of feeding his ticket
to the machine and swiping his credit card. The machine spit his ticket back
out at him and Reggie made his way back to his car.
He handed the ticket to Dodie as he buckled in and backed out of the
space. He successfully navigated his way through the rest of the garage, fed
his ticket to the machine at the exit, and drove up to the street. He watched car
after car pass by, all ready for a day in the park just like he did with Dodie. He
smiled. One of the benefits of being old was getting up and about earlier than
most. It was early afternoon and the crowds were starting to pick up. It would
have been much harder to navigate the museum with tons of kids running
around.
Reggie waited for a break in traffic before he pulled out into traffic. Dodie screamed.
“You’re going the wrong way!”
Reggie’s heart just about burst out of his chest which would have made
a terrible mess on the floor. He had pulled into traffic going the wrong way on
a one way street and a minivan was there to greet him.
Reggie jerked the wheel to the left to try and go around the van, but the
sidewalk was full of people. The tires screamed as he corrected his turn and
shot across the street to the right and passed the minivan without so much
as a scratch, but the excitement wasn’t over yet. The tiny hybrid he was now
barreling towards honked at him. Reggie saw the coast to the right was clear and swerved again, his tires
hollering at him to stop. The smell of hot rubber filled the inside of the cab and
his wife’s screams of terror cut through every other sound that was assaulting
his ears. He cleared the grey hybrid and slammed on his breaks. He had done
enough and keeping his foot on the gas wasn’t going to help anyone. His car
didn’t seem to notice his foot on the break. The Lady skid forward towards
the side which was thankfully empty. He pumped the breaks but to no avail.
The car leapt up onto the curb and slammed into a rot iron cage that protected
a tiny tree from just this sort of situation.
The engine rumbled and Reggie could feel it through the iron grip he
held on the steering wheel. Dodie unbuckled herself and flew across the car
and wrapped Reggie in a vice like hug. She kissed his cheek then leaned back
and grabbed his face, cupping it in her hands.
“Are you okay?” Her voice was shaking. “The sign said ‘one way’.
Reggie, what happened?” She studied him with worried eyes.
“I…” Reggie began. “I… I don’t know.” His eyes glazed over with
frustrated and tired tears. “I couldn’t see it.” He swallowed. “I couldn’t even
see the arrow back in the garage. He focused and looked Dodie in the eyes.
“Dodie, I’m old.” His voice cracked.
Dodie smiled at him and leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. “Honey,
PGR 37
you’ve been old for a while now.”
There was a tapping on the window and the couple turned to see a cop
looking in. Reggie rolled down the window and the rest of the day went by
in one big blur.
Reginald Kennedy was given his first ticket in over thirty years. In the
following week Reggie and his family came to the conclusion that his vision
was just a little too poor to keep on driving.
*
A sad smile crossed Reggie’s face as he looked at the dent in the bumper
and then backed up to get a good look at his car. Part of him didn’t want to
give up the car. He wanted to fight for his right to drive, for his freedom. But
the other part of him knew that this was the right decision. He had caused
a big mess and he was lucky no one was hurt. There was no guarantee that
he’d get in such a mess again, but he couldn’t risk it. The thought of hurting
someone, killing someone, was enough of a deterrent.
He sensed someone next to him and looked up to see his grandson
standing next to him and eyeing the car. Reggie reached into his pocket, pulled
out the keys, and handed them to his grandson.
“Take care of her, Reggie.” The elder Reggie said to his grandson with
a smile.
“I will, Grandpa.” The younger Reggie returned the smile and gave his
grandfather a big hug. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and buy you some sub
compact car instead.” He gave young Reggie a light sock on the arm.
The young man nodded and tried, and failed, to hide his glee as he
bounced around the car and climbed inside.
“You had a good run with her.” Dodie’s voice came from somewhere
behind Reggie. A moment later she appeared at his side. She held his hand
and threaded her fingers with his.
“We had a better run.” He smiled.
“Had?” She winked at him. “We’re still going, Reggie.”
*
Reginald Kennedy the second pulled out of the parking lot of the
convenience store and pulled back into traffic. He had wanted his first stop
in his Grandpa’s old Fairlane to be something epic, to be something worthy
of the long history of the car, but he was dying of thirst and keeping himself
alive was a very good first stop. Reggie had wanted the car for as long as he
could remember. He smiled as he thought back to the days when his grandpa
would take him out to lunch on the weekends. He breathed in deep and took
in the familiar scent of upholstery mixed with his grandfather’s unique musk
It smelled like his childhood.
Reggie took a joyride around his neighborhood. His friends would be
outside and see him driving by. He took turn after turn passing house after
PGR 38
house letting his eyes wander when he saw something move out of the
corner of his eye.
Reggie’s attention shot back to the road in front of him just in time
to see a puppy dart in front of The Lady. He slammed on the breaks and
the car came to a screeching halt. The drink that sat in the makeshift cup
holder his Grandpa had installed, spilled all over the driver’s side floor
and soaked his feet in soda. He cursed under his breath and looked up
to see if the puppy was okay. He didn’t see it. A cold sick feeling grew
in his stomach. He threw the car in park and leapt out of the car and
grimaced as his soda soaked shoes squished with each step he took. He
darted around the car and prepared himself for the worst.
A small golden retriever puppy looked up at him and barked and
started running circles around Reggie who was busy thanking God that
he didn’t commit vehicular puppycide. He reached down and picked up
the excited dog whose owner seemed to confuse coffee for water. The
puppy licked Reggie’s face like it was a tootsie pop and pawed him like
he was trying to climb to the top of his head.
“Hey, cut it out!” Reggie laughed.
“Cooper! Stop it!” A soft angelic voice cut through Reggie’s
laughter and caused him to look up.
A young woman with light brown hair and electric blue eyes ran
across the lawn of a nearby house and up to Reggie and the puppy. When
she was closer, and got a better look at what was going on, she smiled.
The sight bypassed Reggie’s eyes and went straight to his heart. He felt
his cheeks heat up.
Reggie stood up, still holding the puppy, and offered it to the
beautiful woman standing in front of him. He wanted to tell her how sorry
he was for almost hitting her dog. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she
was. He wanted to be bold and ask her out. Reggie opened his mouth to
speak.
“Uh…” Was all he could manage.
The woman stared at him for a moment and Reggie felt his cheeks
grow even hotter. Her eyes sparkled and a smile followed. She reached
out and took the puppy and held it with one arm. She reached out with
her free hand and offered it Reggie.
“I’m Holly.” She smiled.
Reggie took her hand and shook it, but it still took him a moment
to find his voice.
“I’m Reggie.” His words were almost a whisper.
Two big things happened that day. He was given his grandfather’s
car, and he met a beautiful woman named Holly. The only downside
was the stain on the front driver’s side floor.
PGR 39
On A Sunday
Margie Curcio
Clarisa Chisum
Black Gloves
Pegatha Hughes
after “The Strange Lady,” by Aleksandr Blok At church my friend wears black gloves
with the same elegance as the woman
in a tavern by a window in a poem
who wears in her hat drooping ostrich plumes,
beguiling the wine-stunned poet
by the faraway shores of her eyes.
Her eyes have secrets of their own.
PGR 40
It’s still early.
The crickets have grown silent, daybreak quieting their restless singing.
They wake naturally, no alarm clock bleating out the hour,
the odd minutes.
It is Sunday.
He curls his body around her, pulls her into him.
He sinks into her—a sugar cube in a cup of tea
stomachs concave—
spoons resting in the drawer—
tanned clavicle breathing freckled shoulder blade.
Morning peeks in through their windows,
stealing glances at their goosedimpled skin,
casting golden shadows on the caramel carpet.
Crisp beams of light reflect the slats of the dated Levolor blinds—
Their ghosts running across the iceblue walls.
He kisses her.
Slowly.
The hands of the clock rotate.
Unhurried.
Together they slide into Sunday morning.
PGR 41
I remember
Joan Maro
the smell of coffee and lemon cookies,
as soft as the blue light at dawn,
the kitchen tile cool on my feet
and all I could hear was the breeze.
We forgot to wind up your
alarm clock last night
when we fell through the sheets
and licked the wine from each other’s mouths.
We woke up early though,
strange for us,
as the warm tickle of 10:00 am was
always the first face
I kissed before yours.
The sun had not blown out the night,
and we could still see the purple caress
of skinny fingers on the horizon,
reaching towards our house
over the sand,
a color as tough as hemp and matching
the bare feet we had worn,
bare since the beginning of summer,
from the old kitchen
with hot coffee and warm lemon cookies
spilling out onto
the wicker chairs
and I dragged you out with me,
into the waves of morning,
onto the wooden deck
and you tied a ribbon in my hair
and you said that I looked almost like
the young girl you met the first time
and I did not want the sun to rise.
I wanted it to blow out of sight
and leave us alone in the dawn.
Azaz Nurcan
PGR 42
PGR 43
Self-Portrait at 23
Joan Maro
I stood inside myself...
like a gravestone or a tower in a churchyard.
I pulled hard at the end of his tie,
and high above me
a bell of white lily petals tolled.
Because my hand
strangled its sister
I begged: Make it stone.
Because my tongue
shouted insults that echoed
against stone
I yelled:
Make it dust.
But still
it was not death, but
my father’s body
in his black suit
I yearned for.
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
That’s why
I stood in the churchyard,
but the grass would not turn brown,
and the snow would not fall.
KOAK
PGR 44
PGR 45
Sacramental Fragments from a Pilgrimage
Lapsang Souchong
dry socks
clean sheets
hot soup
sharp cheese, crisp apple
comfortable boots
photos of family kept in a ziploc bag
rolling fields of winter wheat
sunny day, huge blue sky
walking solitude
working cellphone
accurate guidebook
cold beer at the end of the day
cold beer at the end of the day
In the 13th century church
at Zabaldika you get a stamp
on your credencial, and you can pay a half euro
to climb the tower to strike the bell just once,
a full rich resonance over a quiet mountain valley
but, if you are lucky, the best part
is a kiss on the cheek from Sister Maria
of the order of the Sacred Heart
when she wishes you, “Buen camino”
before you step out into the rain.
At the Buddhist albergue in Galicia
if a pilgrim asks to see the room
the hospitalaro replies,
“No, you may not see the room,
only tourists ask to see the room.”
In the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela
it is forbidden to take movies or photos
during mass, yet when the Botafumiero,
the incense burner, big as a Volkswagen,
is lit and swings high through the transept, hundreds of cellphones and cameras
are held aloft and flash, trying to catch
a glimpse of the divine.
I knew her well, Lapsang Souchong, my lovely roommate with a soft
accent and a waterfall of luminous hair. My friends and I called her Susie
or Chickadee or Sing Sing as she filled the apartment with music—Baez to
Beatles, Brubeck to Beethoven. Her boyfriend teased her with pet names,
Lap Dance or Once-around-the-Track. She would feign outrage, punch his
arm, then hug him close. She warmed the apartment with her laughter and lit
every corner with her easy storytelling.
Occasionally, reluctantly, after a glass or two of Chardonnay, she would
refer to the dark rooms of her childhood, of slaps and empty rice bowls, of a
sister she hardly remembered. She described the village she wandered as a
child. We could almost smell the chili in the market, hear the squeal of animals
giving their lives for other families’ bellies, see the gentle gaze of the ancient
ama with tiny feet who would sneak Lapsang a sesame bun from her cart.
Her saddening eyes told the story behind the story of a cold, bewildering
journey from the home she hoped for to the unspeakable betrayal of a girl
promised work in a far city…unthinkable acts committed by a trusted “uncle”
and faceless others. And then the one with a daughter her age, a man who still
felt warm blood running through him, sensed a human heart yet alive in the
girl. She only guessed at his sacrifice, only knew her release to strangers, to
compassion, to feeding and to healing.
Lapsang relished scarlet, turquoise, and emerald. Our rented walls
roiled with vivid florals and stripes tacked across the expanses of walls, draped
over windows. Our yard-sale-find table always waited, set with a rainbow of
plates and saucers and mismatched silverware. We would sit down to feast
on beef bourguignon or pasta primavera, California roll or enchiladas verdes—
never chow fun or egg flower soup.
In the midst of serving clam chowder from a steaming tureen, Lapsang
might check out for a moment, gazing beyond the bright tablecloth. A shudder
would turn her eyes to onyx. If I observed, open in that instant, I could see the
young girl in a dank room, tremble with her, then return to the banquet and
bring her back with me.
Years later sipping coffee and writing with my daughter in the Coffee
Bean and Tea Leaf, I realized that they sell Lapsang Souchong by the pound—
Chinese black tea. My transcendent friend with the shadowy past hid her real
name in the folds of her silk skirts.
Tom McKoy
PGR 46
Alanna Alter
PGR 47
Cinnabar
Barbara Bloom
He kept a museum full of rusted tools
in the dim rooms of an adobe hacienda,
the site of the New Almaden Quicksilver mines.
There was tragedy here—Indians
forced to work in the mines, dying of mercury poisoning
from the cinnabar ore they’d paint themselves with,
not seeing the connection between the red paint
and their sickness.
“Are you my little girls?” he’d always ask,
as my sister and I squirmed to get off his lap,
away from the cigar smoke and something else.
We always had to say “yes” before darting off,
the paper cigar rings on our fingers a poor prize
and we knew it even then.
We’d escape to the yard outside
littered with ancient wagons and piles of machinery,
glad to be in the sunshine and air
away from our parents and this man who was their friend.
When we peered in the dusty, deep-set windows,
we could see them raising glasses of red wine
and all around them, relics of the doomed miners
who got too close to the core of things
and died for it.
Eric Hasse
Eric Hasse
PGR 48
PGR 49
Where Sorrow Lives
Magdalena Montagne
Sorrow lives in my mother’s kitchen
polished clean
scrubbed with the force of a woman
who is wounded and fighting
with all her might.
Sorrow lives
Between the matching Lenox china
and the freshly pressed linens.
Let me lie down with this sorrow
her prayer.
Sorrow lives in the basement
where my father labored
with the skill saw, hammer and nails.
The time he lopped off a finger
sorrow sang.
But usually she hummed gently in the background
through the leaves of autumn swaying
radiating like the ping pinging of the sideboard heater
snowy winters.
Sorrow lives in the ancient apple trees in the yard
where even the blood red
of the gladiolas my father planted
could not spirit it away.
Or obscure the history of the man who groomed the horses
who hanged himself finally from the rafters of the barn
where the ponies stood
ready to warm him
with breath
fresh with the hay he had just offered.
Sorrow lives in the church
we visited on Sundays.
At the altar
with the statue of Jesus.
In the rusty nails straight through the hands and feetand the cold tears shed
PGR 50
at the crucifixion
when he felt abandoned by his own Father.
Sorrow lives quietly
for three days
in the tomb
and rises again
Spreading like wildfire
smoke and ashes and dust
in our mouths
soundless and wordless
In what we cannot say
sorrow lives.
And she’s in my sisters
behind their eyes and the crook of my neck
and underneath our fingernails.
In the most intimate of places.
How can we turn our backs on sorrow’s seduction?
So we succumb
to her lamentations
and weeping.
She is shrouded
in a veil.
She is vain.
She is sometimes sleeping.
In my sister’s
days in bed.
There she is,
sorrow.
Day after day
she flirts with sorrow.
Until she cannot get breath—almost loses consciousness
becomes ecstatic with sorrow.
Sorrow and my own anger
both rise.
Twin flames in a frosty glass,
a porch light dim on a starless night.
PGR 51
Their Voices Vered Manasse
Lying in bed on my back with my eyes shut down. Breathing in and out,
trying to allow the darkness to enter, the night to take its place and dreams
of another family where I could feel like I belonged to take over and color my
reality with some additional joy. The lights are off, but their voices continue to
sneak in without permission, without respect to the closed door.
They talk as if someone forced them to have this conversation. My mom’s
voice is so familiar, and I feel it more than I can hear it. I feel her effort of controlling the yelling that wants to burst out of her chest, I feel her fingers creating small fists to not allow her hands to push him away from her. My dad’s
voice is relaxed, as if he doesn’t understand the drama, the issue, the topic. I’m in bed, school tomorrow, and it all just doesn’t make any sense.
Their voices are quiet, I hear them talking of their concern that they would
wake me up. Their whispers are louder than any music, TV or radio. I turn on my side, push my ear strongly to the pillow trying to block the
sounds and pull the blanket over my head. Their voices are still there, entering
and penetrating my bedroom without mercy or consideration.
My breathing moves with what they say. They stop talking for a moment
and my breath stops with them, anticipating the end of the conversation. Soon
sleep will be welcomed in my bedroom which I pictured to be the castle of my
nights. But they start again, it’s almost as if they entered into my head—two
miniature parents, two puppets with the shapes, names and behavior of my
mom and dad, only they are now IN ME talking, trying to convince each other
how wrong the other is.
My dolls look at me with a fixed facial expression, witnessing the way two
adults just ‘entered’ my head and refuse to go away. I look at the doll that sits
on the right side of the shelf with her blue hair, long legs and big eyes and I’m
quietly asking for help. Her eyes focus on my face and for a fraction of a second
I feel as if she actually understands me.
I try to push their voices away but they are everywhere now—in my ears,
eyes and mouth, in my brain. They crawl on and around my body. My blanket
doesn’t manage to block them away or protect me, rather it seems to have become a speaker that increases their volume without control.
I do not allow myself to think of standing up, opening the door, going out
of the room, to the corridor, to the dining room, to the living room where they
are, and scream at them to stop.
Closing my body, my thoughts, my ears and my eyes, so their voices will
not enter, only that they are already inside, and I’m trying to escape something
that is already in me. Finally I’m asleep.
The morning after. Everyone is smiling as if nothing happened. My head
hurts and my stomach clenches in a tight knot.
“How did you sleep sweetie?” they ask.
PGR 52
Summer Wallen
PGR 53
It was the year everything
turned to music
Julia Alter-Canvin
How To Play Jazz Saxophone
Dan Phillips
First, you must buy
the bird in the bamboo cage
before you climb the mountain
to the golden temple.
Once there, you fit
reed to mouthpiece
mouthpiece to neck
neck to horn and blow,
so blinded by the brilliant dome
you forget the right notes
and why you have come.
Then you pull the string
on its fragile cage door
and the bird soars free
taking your prayers with it.
Nate Weir
I pushed my arm through the corset of a cloud,
laced the torso with a fog so thin I held it
between my fingers like floss.
It was the year everything turned to music.
The screeching harmonies of violin
as the fingertips of wind sifted prickles of oak leaves.
The sun rose like middle C and a cascade of light
up my spine, warm as flat sharp flat
and a treble cleff reached and twisted
and someone always running their keys at dawn’s door.
The grackles bellowed a shocking tuba tone
and yellow turned trumpet before my ears.
The road to the summer house, lined in a choir
of sunflowers, proud as Baptists, swaying
with their hallelujah chins tilted up toward the god
who lived inside the gold room inside the gold coin
of the sun. With the high notes.
My brothers, the bagpipe and the accordion,
once, they screamed in the same room
and everything glass committed suicide—
the goblets and the plate windows looking out
on the vineyard—each grape took its place
in the architecture of sound, rounding out
the cello and the forgotten hollow of the upright bass.
A chorus so purple it almost rained 40 songs.
That year, the saxophone was the stream
we skinny-dipped in and re-emerged,
resplendent, impregnated
with the music of things.
By the time you have descended,
the bird has returned to
the seller and you are free
to go on improvising your life.
PGR 54
PGR 55
Sydni Indman
I fell in love with the baker’s son
Peggy Hansen Iceland
Margie Curcio
Kelly M. Woods
Maybe it’s the way he slowly,
carefully,
pushes his solid, boxer’s fists into the cool,
firm dough
with restrained force.
As though his floured hands were
wantonly kneading the stress of the day
from his lover’s delicate body.
Maybe it’s the way he knows exact measurements:
3 eggs, 1/4 cup of almond paste,
a pinch of star anise.
Precisely how many kisses on the
thin, perfumed skin of
a woman’s neck,
her collarbone.
How much pressure on the cartilage of
her right ear.
Or just how long to hold back
before leaning in
to meet the parched lips
thirsting for him—only him—
PGR 56
PGR 57
before he covers her mouth
with his own.
Maybe it’s the way he dips his spoon
into the thick batter,
eyes locked in discernment,
licking his lips,
recognizing the taste.
The marriage of perfect ingredients.
The rich, creamy saltiness
of Napoleon custard,
of glistening skin.
Maybe it’s the way he intently,
meticulously
braids the buttery Danish pastries.
As though he is lacing their fingers together
for all eternity,
and he wants to get it just right.
Or the way he lovingly brushes on the egg wash.
As though he is consecrating the bread of her body,
anointing her in oil and yolk and crystallized sugar and trust.
The scent of her bare skin,
bathed in jasmine,
drizzled with molasses
and desire.
Maybe it’s the way he fills the pastry cups,
as though he were filling her emptiness.
Maybe it’s the glint in his eyes,
as he looks up,
knowing
the familiar,
starved look in my eyes.
Holding my gaze.
Or his friendly, open smile showing his intense love
for this thing that he has created.
Maybe it’s the way he silently rolls out the fondant.
As though he is
reluctantly
unfolding a blanket
to cover her sleeping body.
Maybe it’s the dry heat from the ovens,
or the moist heat of their hungry bodies.
Or the scent of the vanilla,
the cinnamon,
the cocoa powder.
PGR 58
Sydni Indman
Maybe it’s the way he lazily, gingerly
trails his fingers,
over the flakey crust,
over knees and elbows and breasts.
His fingertips
on the pulse of midnight.
His fingertips
on shoulder blades and spine and the
sfogliatelle curve of tailbone.
As though she were made of light and air and
lemon-zested phyllo.
His touch awakening her.
He lays her gently down on the waxed parchment, as though she were a
fragile cannoli shell. As if he does not want to leave fingerprints on the skin of marzipan.
PGR 59
Sydni Indman
PGR 60
PGR 61
Julia Alter-Canvin
*title from the song “A Kiss to Build a Dream On” by Bert Kalmar, Harry Ruby and Oscar Hammerstein II, 1935
Ah, yes, hold me and don’t ever let me go. I’ll be winter. You be spring and I’ll keep chasing you
with my chilly fingers. I’ve jumped two seasons to find you again, you’ll say. And I’ll say,
You always say that. You say that every year.
I wanted to embrace you but my feet were two icebergs in the icepalace of our bed.
And you had a song on fire in your heart.
Because you were not frozen.
Because I was aiming through one thousand blossoms to reach you.
Because tigers pounce thirty times in spring but not once in winter.
I wanted to embrace the chill of my own skin, the silverblue of hate I had for you
but damned if you are not April with your backbone of shoreline and damned if I am
barricading myself in here. Hammering in the doors. Battening down whatever may hatch.
I am no fledgling. I will be here with my lipstick and my blanket and my gun. Yes, this is a fortress.
Yes, around my heart. No. You may not come in. No. That is not the password. I wanted to embrace alcoholism but my crush on the grapes stole my socks and ran away.
I am the dish, I tell him. Spoon me, I say. Tip me over & pour me out. Sloe gin fizzly.
Like a marionette in a skirt. Dip me and kiss me and how do those 2000 songs go?
Give Me a Kiss to Build a Dream On*
Orphans
Margie Curcio
She holds the pen that spells the end, she traces me and draws me in. —Metallica, “Sweet Amber”
A fat, black, beer-bellied fly got in the elevator
and rode with me to the balcony on the second floor. In the space between, hardly a breath, all I could remember was that first cool night, your cool green eyes,
stone-washed sea glass—rough edges churned smooth in the crush and turn of ancient sand,
glowing in the hum of electrified beer signs, piercing the dark of that late-October night.
I always thought they were blue—
like the soft cotton blanket in the hatchback of my ’89 Dodge –
The catch of breath,
thick in my throat
as I, coming out,
and you, going in.
The slight, polite, quarter inch turn of our bodies, courteously not bumping.
As we passed, eyes locked in the aftermath,
I already knew—
I wanted you to touch me.
“Yummy”
is all I had said.
The word slipped carelessly from between my teeth.
Low, breathily, aloud—out before I could stop myself thinking it.
And I, betrayed by my own lips,
momentarily disarmed by your masculine beauty—
Adonis’ perfection in human form.
And you, the expression of your mossy eyes confessing you had heard. (I was glad.)
Mesmerized, foolish girl—I drove off.
And I—
thankful for the red light, the timely pause slowing the glide of my drive home —
got out of my sporty, tough-girl car, walked up to yours,
PGR 62
Jacob Mann
Marlboro smoke leaking from your cracked window—
took aim for the gap and dropped the slip of paper into your lap.
I knew you would call.
I didn’t want to love you— the stormy twilight in your grassy eyes, chiseled cheek bones, perfect jaw line,
you hair, seasoned by dirt and sweat and plumbing grease,
your muscular drummer’s arms, the turn of bicep to elbow
sleek
the curve of a Soquel mountain road,
your scarred plumber’s hands. Our scarred orphan souls.
Certain experiences connect people,
death—loss—rape
connect us
in a way nothing else can.
It is lonely and beautiful—
PGR 63
the tragic, the vile, drawing us together,
parting us from others.
Recognized by intuition, the words never spoken.
Children irrevocably lost
to the spiders’ endless spinning—
caught in silky-webbed lies.
Their reckless feeding, wantonly drinking the blood of our youth.
insignificant in their hunger for flies.
But together, we somehow feel real again.
And sane. And whole.
You know what your hands on my body have cost me.
I know, the splinters in the tops of my feet are a gift.
You know why my hair flames red.
I know, the scratch of your stress-bitten nails, a blessing.
You know why my eyes spit fire.
I know, your palms anoint my shoulders.
You drink down the acid of other men, swallow willingly, I understand.
We know, the violent clinging to something as dark and real as the ghosts living inside us.
Sister
Marcia Moreland Adams
—for Gayle
It is no surprise to find her
flitting through my dreams
We find comfort together, in a place few understand.
It is our uninhibited taking back of the stolen, nameless things.
That is the way she lived
shrouded in a skittery aura
We stop just short of “I love you,”
but I love you—I have always loved you.
I love the secret, the ugly,
the misshapen pieces,
the familiar, innate brokenness,
the sharp cut shards, the untouchable fragments at our cores.
I want your dirty, your dark, your fucked up parts.
I want the skeletons, the ear-splitting rage of your tortured psyche.
I want the fractured haunting.
That part of you will always be mine, only mine.
A blond, blue-eyed hummingbird
glancing off and on crimson petals
I tell myself I am writing you so I can forget,
so I can let go, but I am not convinced.
I know it is a lie.
PGR 64
Allan Winans
She is there in every dead-headed
rose blossom, every splayed magnolia
She inhabits my fogged mornings
and my cumulous-laced afternoons
At times like that emptiness
of a sudden storm’s aftermath
Occasional wisps of what was
the essence her inimitable gaiety
washes up on a sunlit beach
as if she were tumbled sea glass
PGR 65
Wounded Tea
Tom McKoy
when we argue I slap my love
with silence
neither of us understands
what gives
like a well-intentioned
but failed utopia
brown grass overgrows
our celebratory gathering place
the earth has warped
so the front door scrapes
where only yesterday
it swung freely
after tears and talk and time
the weeds clear
the door swings again but
for a small eternity
our tea will taste
of salt
PGR 66
Summer Wallen
Pintándome El Pelo
Clarisa Chisum
Christopher Encarnacion
Painting My Hair
Mami, if I loved you just how you were born
why spend so much of your life—coloring your hair?
It doesn’t even turn out that much different
than where it first started. It was just so it’d be
something else than what you were given.
The madness of the world leaked out through the pointy
nipple of that clear plastic bottle, hands covered by those crinkly
plastic gloves, that came in the box you thought contained the answer.
Water running in our white tub as the blackness ran out from your hair
Was this what your version of baptism?
You fed your hair humanity’s delusion—like milk—just so you could
fit into nothing. Headset pinned between your ear and shoulder
And when Abuela asks what you’re doing, you say: Aqui, pintándome el pelo.
No, you were not here.
PGR 67
And...
Margie Curcio
In my closet
it is always night.
Even when the fluorescent light hums.
And I wonder how the light looks on the other side,
peeking out through the slightly spread fingers of the walnut door.
I feel as though the whole world is sleeping,
except me.
It is a lonely feeling.
And the air is full of silence,
and the fingertap of laptop keys,
and the shuffling of pages,
and another fucking paper cut,
and another sleepless night.
And I can’t write another line,
because a swarm of bees is chasing away the butterflies.
Exhaustion has settled over me.
The frustrated tears come slowly,
dropping like weighty stones.
The door clicks open.
He is standing there.
I look up.
“It’s so late,” he says softly,
his hand outstretched.
“Won’t you come to bed with me?”
And I am too tired to fight,
so I take his proffered hand.
His thumb wipes away a lingering tear
as he whispers
Joe Doudna
“I love your sad brown eyes.
Sometimes I think you are most beautiful when you cry.”
And we are falling.
And the tide is rising.
And morning is coming.
And our names are written in this calligraphy of wanting.
Our names are written in bird song across the quiet dawn.
Daybreak washes over us.
And together we are waiting for dreams to come.
I wish it could always be like this— these moments when he knows me so perfectly—
but morning comes
and he forgets.
Joe Doudna
He kisses me
and we are tongues of flame
dancing in the night.
And the sky, so far past midnight,
is sneaking in through the skylight.
And we are ligaments and moonbones.
We are muscles and we are starfire.
And we are energy and volcano dust and salted skin.
PGR 68
PGR 69
down the faded blue hall, I count other patients
or families, the pregnancies, the unruly children, crowded
onto wooden benches and broken plastic chairs
that smolder with the patina of thousands
of patient waiters waiting a turn or news—
their faces composed or contorted
as all around us all
the night air zings ever so slightly:
the indolent simmer of mosquitoes.
PGR 70
Helene Simkin Jara
dalaS a snraE aixelsyD
Doctor comes. No vitals. No IV. No tetanus shot:
the stitching is rapid, crude, but correct, I pray,
since the Doctor has twisted me away
onto my right side on a grime-crusted metal bench
while nearby, behind a torn yellow curtain
an aged grey-brown Honduran gurgles
his spit as he struggles to breathe
one more time. So
araJ nikmiS eneleH
& taken by taxi to the free
hospital in Coxen Hole
carried, a burly tourist & the driver,
across a cracked patio where two men
barbeque, through dark rain-damp unidentified rooms
and into the harshly lit reception pit
where staff stand or sit around a cluttered counter
under a wall of haphazardly ordered
shelves: bits of tape, exhausted rolls of gauze,
disheveled piles of towels, rags,
a few sutures & needles among the remnants
of donated expired medications.
David Thorn
I text
I’m making dinner
You text
What are we having?
I text
Chicken Enchiladas
You text
We have to have a salad with that
A salad?
A salad?
Since when do you,
my little sister,
tell me what to serve?
A photo comes
with a picture of a salad bar.
And Negro Modelo would be
the beer of choice
I laugh out loud.
Are you out of your mind?
First you tell me to make a salad
now you’re telling me not only to serve beer,
but the brand.
I shake my head. Text
Are you almost here?
No answer.
Must be driving.
Next text:
I don’t think I’ll be there anytime soon.
I sigh. You’re often late.
You text
I’m not in the area code
What the hell?
The doorbell rings.
“Couldn’t get the beer” I say.
What? you say.
“The beer. I couldn’t
I tell you.
get the beer.”
You laugh.
What beer?
Not quite, you say
“Didn’t you ask me to get beer
snitching a bite of the salad
and make a salad?”
I whipped up,
You look at me
then grab your phone
like I’m the one
and text a thank you
out of my mind.
for the salad,
What number do you have for me?
it’s delicious.
Dyslexia Earns a Salad
Injured, Sunday Night, Honduras
PGR 71
The Experiment
Emily Catalano
The year is 2017.
Just two years ago the human race was thriving. We were multiplying
at an alarming rate, sure, but we had the resources and the manpower to
combat global issues such as hunger, disease, and climate change.
Today, the human species is on the verge of extinction.
And it’s entirely my fault...
That Monday in October started in a typical way. I woke up at
10AM and stayed in bed for another hour stalking my ex-boyfriend on
Facebook. He was tagged in a photo with a girl I didn’t recognize. He
had just dumped me the week before and he was already out with some
other girl. How could he?! I slammed my laptop shut, got out of bed, and
scavenged the kitchen for something with chocolate. My mom hadn’t gone
grocery shopping all week so the only thing I could find was chocolate
covered raisins.
As I sucked the chocolate off the raisins, I searched Craigslist for the
easiest way to make some money. I had just graduated from college with
a degree in Communications and my first student loan payment due date
was fast approaching. At first it seemed like the only way to make an easy
buck was by doing something sexual, but then I saw the perfect job link:
PARTICIPANT NEEDED FOR A PAID EXPERIMENTAL STUDY
The scientists at the facility were very kind. As they attached the 52
wires onto my shaved head they explained that they were experimenting
with transferring intelligence from one brain to another. If all went well,
the chimpanzee in the other room would be just as intelligent as me. I
thought that sounded far-fetched, but I don’t know the first thing about
science-y stuff so I let them do their thing.
When I woke up after the procedure, I could tell something went wrong.
I felt perfectly fine, like I had just awakened from a really great nap, but
the scientists in the room gave off a weird vibe. One scientist was huddled
in a corner crying, another was banging her head against a chalkboard
covered with scribbled and erased equations. Finally, the tall one with
glasses approached me.
“I don’t know how to explain,” he started. “We wanted to transfer
your intelligence to the monkey, but something happened.” He continued
through his tears, “Your intelligence wasn’t transferred to the monkey. It
was transferred to us. And it seems to have replaced our own intelligence.
It’s like, now all of a sudden, your brain is our brain. Everything we once
knew about science-y stuff is all gone.”
PGR 72
“How did that happen? Can you reverse it?” I demanded.
He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t know, because I didn’t know.
It was even worse than initially thought. My intelligence level wasn’t just
transferred to the scientists at the facility; it was transferred to every human
being on the planet.
The first few days went okay. Besides the stock market crash, things
actually seemed better than before The Experiment. YouTube exploded
with viral videos of newborn babies speaking like educated adults and
rapping all the lyrics to 2pac’s “Hellrazor.” It was really entertaining until
we realized every baby could do the same thing. After that, things started
to go downhill.
The restaurant business really suffered. All the menus in the
world were limited to grilled cheese sandwiches, noodles with butter,
and quesadillas. They all stayed in business until The Cheese Shortage of
2016, which was due to overconsumption and the lack of cheese-making
knowledge. A lot of people starved to death after that.
The birth rate slowed way down. I did some research into why. One
study showed that the majority of the population “just want to cuddle and
watch a movie” instead of engaging in sexual intercourse.
The death rate grew exponentially. There were a lot of plane and boat
crashes. Driving on the road was actually pretty safe in areas where it didn’t
snow or rain. But there were still car-related deaths. For example, a lot of
people were electrocuted after trying to jump-start their cars.
Here are some other events that made the news in the last two years:
—The Pope apologized for lying to everyone about there being a god.
But then it was reported that he was praying loudly during a FC Barcelona
match.
—Beyoncé tragically died when she slipped onstage at a concert. She
was trying to dance while wearing high-heels.
—President Obama instituted a universal health care law, but then
reversed the decision after all the doctors quit their jobs to stay at home and
work on their romantic-comedy screenplays. Obama then resigned from
office to spend more time learning the Japanese language even though he
knows he’ll never travel to Japan.
We don’t have the Internet anymore because nobody knows how the
Internet works. But I still stalk my ex-boyfriend in real life. I ran into him at a
bar I followed him to the other night and we had a really great chat. He said
ever since The Experiment he’s been able to see our relationship from my
perspective. He apologized for dumping me and promised to be the man
that I deserve. So, I guess you can say that, even though The Experiment
brought a lot of death and destruction and our species will probably only
survive a few more years, it was all totally worth it.
PGR 73
Traveling Back
Lisa Simon —to my adopted daughter
I’d travel back to the making of your bones
inside your first mother’s womb,
to the markings in her
I would follow as traces of you unfolding,
as with tree rings we can see
a history of drought, love,
strength, or great happiness.
I would visit the coil of your limbs
as you found a perfect drift in the drink of her womb.
Then I would watch as you glide
across China’s green Yunnan
smooth as an acrobat, daughter of an acrobat,
within your birth mother’s belly.
I’d know you as you grew under the circus lights,
applause tapping the acrobat’s pregnant body,
thrumming along your pearly spine.
I’d call you my little whistle, little cinder in flight,
little wisp of all whispered earth-secrets,
who, under show lights and afterlights,
in steeps and shivers grew green
as the tea steeped and the steam blew the bare bulb blurry
after the show, offstage and resting.
I’d watch the woman kneel by the radio, window.
You’re breathing watery breaths.
Sleepy and radiant wind
blows in from the fields,
horses’ hooves shuffle and stomp
outside the canvas, steam rises
off the warm blood of animals,
into the making of you.
Diane Patrucuola
PGR 74
PGR 75
The Forbidden Language
Barbara Leon
We embroider a thousand patterns. Young brother reads a thousand books. —Lyrics from a Nushu songbook.
One old woman remembers
how in Jiangyong county, brides sent missives
in characters unknown to men.
Girls with hobbled feet, but fingers
unfettered, flying in deft strokes,
messages sped to mothers, sisters, whose eyes
flitted, quick like swallows, over brushwork.
The middle-aged remember
when fevered youth breathed fire,
denouncing nushu as a feudal relic,
engulfed in the flames that purified China.
Today, village fields yield buried pages,
pulled, earth-eaten, from mouths of worms.
Scraps of embroidery, a bit of brocade,
a tiny embroidered slipper. Scholars grasp
for what’s left, but the knowledge,
elusive as silk, slips through their fingers.
And young women stride into cities,
large footprints claiming common
ground, characters written in common
language, and once-guarded ciphers
for survival, remembered only by one wraith
of a woman, her/self fading daily,
like ink traces on ancient paper.
PGR 76
Joe Doudna
The radical for woman in Mandarin is nu,
same as for slave. They named the language
nushu, women’s script. And while men
of learning crafted elegant calligraphy,
the women hurried ink shapes on bamboo.
Life stories told in the folds of a fan, words
woven in cloth or sprinkled, hand stitched,
midst needlework flowers. Script to song,
sworn sisters shrilled lamentation.
Bitter fate­—to be cast far from ancestral home
into rough stranger’s hands. To endure,
bear rebukes and blows, stung
by mother-in-law’s nettled tongue.
Think of the Children
Galen Savidge
April 21st, 2036; the day on which Cleese’s first baby was born. The
hospital room was crowded; along with her biological parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Pearson, the president of Sutherford Enhancement and Development (or
SEAD) and, by the look of it, most of his corporation, Gaia’s birthplace was
inhabited by a sea of journalists and photographers. The news would call the
birth of the first genetically modified child everything from an abomination
to the future of mankind, but all knew the event was monumentous. Despite
PGR 77
the undeniability of this fact, and his own responsibility for the birth taking
place, Cleese found himself with no desire to witness the event. Throughout
his lengthy career in genetic engineering, Cleese had always thought of this
day with hopefulness and reverie. Somehow, though, the current tangibility
of the event put a damper on his excitement. Cleese sighed and walked across
the hotel room to where a half empty bottle awaited him, sitting on the table.
Cleese thought it looked rather impatient; he paused only briefly to admire
the cityscape below. Even through his apathetic stupor, Cleese was acutely
aware that after today humanity could never turn back.
“Don’t you realize what’s at stake here?” Sarah said. She was becoming increasingly frustrated. “This is our child’s future we’re talking about. He
could have the chance that we never did.”
Vick wasn’t so sure. The myriad risks of the idea kept going around in
his head, one seeming to lead into another in an infinite loop.
“The man I talked to promised it’s safe,” Sarah went on. “I even looked
into the background of the gen-engineer involved in the program. His credentials were sound. He’s British.”
Vick had married Sarah at the start of the 22nd century, 3 years and 8
months ago. They hadn’t had any kind of ceremony; that particular aspect
of marriage was unfortunately out of their grasp, as homosapien marriage
had been banned in the previous decade. “It just feels wrong.” Vick sighed.
“Why would someone want to enhance the child of two Brutes like us?” “Who
cares?” Sarah said exasperatedly. “And don’t use that word. We can still respect our race even if we don’t want our child to be part of it.” Sarah and Vick
lived together, along with three others, in a respectable two story cottage in
North Mexico State of the United States of America. They did fairly well for a
homosapien couple: Vick worked at a local McBeef, and Sarah picked corn in
the fields which surrounded their suburb. The couple was currently taking a
sunset walk for a brief bit of privacy. “You know me, Vick, I won’t take no for
an answer,” Sarah said as they neared the house. “In any case, I have to be two
months pregnant to qualify for the procedure. That’s plenty of time for me to
change your mind.”
Art peered out the window into Great Britain’s notorious fog as his car
zipped along the surface of the aqueduct. The archaic buildings of Cambridge
University were barely visible in the distance, quickly approaching him at
250 miles per hour. That particular school was one of the few old world universities kept relatively architecturally intact through the sudden transformation the world underwent during the beginning of the genetic revolution. Art
didn’t think very often about the homosapien era, referred to in his history
courses as the dark ages, when the Brutes slaughtered each other mercilessly in innumerable massive wars, and nearly made the planet uninhabitable;
today however, he could not keep it out of his mind. It was strange to Art
that even in this year, 2109, Brutes still inhabited every area of the planet and
outnumbered his race, the neosapiens, nearly three to one. Despite that fact,
PGR 78
Art realized, he had never spoken to one. He could see a few now, toiling
away in the field below. He watched them for a few seconds before they were
out of sight. It had been just the previous year that the law had been passed
which classified the Brutes as nonhuman. Art saw the decision as both a necessary and humane one: the Brutes, most of which had lived in miserably desolate poverty for generations, would now be taken care of by the kind owners
which Art had seen portrayed so often in the measure’s campaign ads. These
thoughts fled from Art’s mind when he arrived at the campus, his car coming to a smooth and silent stop in front of Cambridge’s front gates, and its
door opening for him automatically. Art hopped out of the car and joined the
stream of students entering the campus.
Cleese Michaels was the leader of SEAD’s genetic engineering team
researching fetus enhancement. He had been personally responsible for the
creation of the 14 man effort in 2023, and over the next 12 years became good
friends with each of his 13 colleagues in the group. During the last several months before their project’s completion his team had worked on a tight
schedule, often not seeing their families for days at a time. Their goal, of
course, was to complete a patentable procedure for engineering specific traits
into unborn children before their competitors could do so. It was a year ago
exactly, Cleese now realized, when he had received the phone call from Paul.
“I’m not doing it anymore,” Paul started.
Paul, nearly two decades younger than the 46 year old Cleese, had
been one of Cleese’s favorite students and best friends.
“I quit. I can’t work on this project anymore, just can’t, Cleese. I’m not
coming to the lab tomorrow. I’ve talked to the others and most are with me.”
Cleese was shocked. He managed to stutter out a request for an explanation.
“I just don’t think it’s right, what we’re doing,” said Paul, “Rick and
Keenan did a bit of detective work, and it turns out SEAD is predicting a
quadruple digit profit margin from our work. They’re also going to sell our
research to the army. We’ll be creating soldiers, Cleese.”
Cleese remembered shaking his head even though he knew his colleague couldn’t see the gesture. He could control the situation, as he always
did; he had seen emotional outbursts like this before.
“Paul, dammit, you know the importance of our work. SEAD is the
only company which will make the procedure widely available for use. We’ll
be doing all of humanity a favor.”
“Will we, Cleese?” Paul said, almost hysterically. “I don’t know what
they told you, but you’ve been blinded. I don’t know by what, money maybe,
or fame, but you’re not the same man I-”
“Paul,” interrupted Cleese, “I’ll expect to see you at work tomorrow.”
There was a satisfying clack and then silence as he hung up the phone.
Vick clearly remembered his sunset conversation with Sarah nearly
PGR 79
two months prior. They were on their way to the gene clinic, Sarah in the
seat next to his on the archaic diesel bus which was their only way to reach
downtown North Mexico City. Sarah had been right about changing his mind
after all: the luck of having this chance offered them was undeniable. In the
end Vick had not been able to deny their child such an opportunity no matter
what the risks involved.
“One thing still bothers me,” he said. “Won’t it be obvious that we have
a new-human child? He’ll learn to walk and talk months before the other
children do. If they include physical enhancements, he’ll be six feet tall by the
time he’s 10 years old.”
Sarah smiled at him. “The men I talked to reassured me that they would
take care of that,” she said, “in fact they offer this procedure to homosapiens
quite often apparently.”
They arrived at the clinic well after closing hours, just as they had been
instructed to. It was located in a part of town they visited rarely due to the
predominance of new-human businesses in the area, places where they would
be neither welcome nor able to afford anything that was for sale. There were
a few lit up windows in the otherwise dark facility, one on the side of the first
floor and a couple visible on the second floor. Curtains were drawn on every
window top to bottom. Vick felt himself jump slightly as a sharp voice came
out of the darkness to their right.
“Are you 2698CE-Victor and 51ACD1-Sarah?”
When Sarah responded in the affirmative, a customer service ‘bot
emerged from the shadows, signaled for them to follow, and began to move
towards a side door beside the lit window on the first floor. Vick noted that
the ‘bot was a similar in make to those that greeted customers at his McBurger.
“Apologies for the impersonal welcome,” said a voice emanating from
the ‘bot, “but we can’t, of course, let you know our identities. It was dangerous enough to let you speak to our marketing agents.”
The knot in Vick’s stomach tightened as the voice ordered him to remain where he was. He felt helpless as he watched his wife disappear into the
building.
Cleese received the second phone call at 2:45 AM the following night.
Even in his drowsy state Cleese could tell something was wrong; he had an
uneasy feeling as he answered the phone. “Mr. Michaels, I am calling to inform
you of a situation at your workplace. Several men are occupying the building.
They have your lab specimens as hostages. We are prepared to take measures
to control the situation but one of them requested to speak to you.” The voice
on the other side of the phone was unfamiliar, but Cleese unquestioningly
slipped into his clothes and drove the 15 minutes to the lab in stunned silence.
He knew what was going on, of course: he’d just never imagined Paul to be
the type to pull a stunt like this. Cleese pulled up to his familiar lab, now
obscured by a swarm of police cars and speckled with blue and red lights
reflecting off of every surface. Cleese couldn’t help but think it looked rather
PGR 80
festive. An officer of SEAD’s private police force walked out from the ring of
cars to meet Cleese as he pulled into the lab building’s parking lot.
“There’s a man inside named Paul Schwartz who wants to talk to you.
He seems willing to negotiate, so we’ve put the SWAT teams on hold.”
Cleese nodded, retrieving his rolled up phone from his pocket, pressing his finger to it quickly, and requesting a phone call to Paul. The video
stream was picked up almost immediately. There seven of them in the lab;
Cleese noted the crowbars in their hands.
“Thank God you’re here,” Paul said, “I knew you could be reasoned
with, you’ve always been-”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Paul?” Cleese interrupted.
“You know they won’t just let you walk out. Breaking into a SEAD facility and
threatening to destroy specimens worth millions in research funds.”
“Precisely!” Paul said excitedly, “They can’t risk coming in here because we have the children. All four of them are in this room, and I know
neither you nor the company will do anything to endanger them.”
He paused for a second, then continued.
“Cleese, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on these things, but
you can’t deny that what we’re doing here isn’t right. I joined the team believing that the research would be a good idea. I’ll admit it, I was naive. Are you
really so blind that you can’t see the real motives behind funding the research,
the inequality that it will create?“
Cleese responded only with stony silence.
“You’re the key piece, Cleese. They can’t continue without you. Please,
you have to see my point here.”
“You know I can’t do that, Paul,” Cleese said softly.
“Well, fine. There is another solution…”
Paul’s voice broke slightly as he picked up his crowbar from the table.
Cleese could see him and the others closing in on the artificial birthing chambers which housed the four developing fetuses, Cleese’s children. The genetic
code of the specimens, Adam, Eve, Gaia, and Ura, contained the culmination
of decades of Cleese’s research; their destruction would set him back years
and ensure that a rival would beat him to a patentable procedure. As Paul
hung up the call, a policeman spoke in Cleese’s ear urgently.
“Mr. Michaels, the walls of the building are thin and we have beads on
each of their heat signatures. I’ve had a man in position to neutralize each one
since you arrived. Do we have permission to take the shot?”
Cleese closed his eyes. “Do it.”
Art’s day at Cambridge started just like any other, his calculus, painting, and field theory classes passing as usual. Art was the personification of
the perfect student: he excelled in classes, lead the astro-robotics club on campus, and won awards for his colorful digital paintings which were both abstract and lifelike. Between classes, Art exited the building, noting how the
morning’s fog had made way for a clear fall day. Art began to walk briskly
PGR 81
across one of Cambridge’s numerous courtyards when an unfamiliar man approached him. “Artemis?” the man said. This was Art’s given name, though
he preferred that it was not used. He nodded in acknowledgement. The man
looked like a fairly standard order new-human: about seven feet tall, with
perfect black hair that the wind seemed unable to touch, blemishless light
mocha skin, and a strong jaw.
“Artemis,” the man repeated, “I’d like a minute to talk to you. It’s
about your parents.”
Art’s parents were both public figures, due to their money if not much
else. Like many new-humans, Art’s family had profited immensely during the
genetic revolution, the time after SEAD first made its genetic enhancement
procedures available to the public. Due to his birth, Art too had been consigned a life under public scrutiny.
“Ah, what have they done now then?” Art inquired, “Has there been
another scandal?”
The man shook his head.
“Not those parents,” he said, “it’s about time you learned about your
biological parents, Artemis.”
The man lead Art across the courtyard and through a small alleyway
to a waiting car. “This may come as a shock,” the man started. He hesitated
before continuing. “Artemis… Your biological parents are homosapien.”
He took advantage of Art’s stunned silence to continue: “You were created as part of an illicit program which enhances Brute fetuses and gives the
children to infertile neosapien couples. It’s very profitable, they are paid both
by the Brutes, as payment for enhancing their children, and by their new-human customers, for protecting their reputations.”
Art was shocked and a bit angry. “You must have very solid proof to
back up those claims,” he said defensively.
“I’m glad you asked,” replied the stranger. “I was the genengineer who
performed the procedure on your mother. Her name was Sarah, from North
Mexico in the US.”
Art felt the fear well up inside of him. He reached for the door of the
car, which he found to be locked.
“I’m sorry,” said the physician, “I couldn’t take the chance that you
wouldn’t want to hear me out.”
He continued speaking despite Art’s obvious emotional distress.
“The truth is, Artemis, we need you. My work has shown me that there
is still hope for the base homosapien race. You’re the living proof of that. As
I’m sure you’re aware, enhancing homosapiens is widely regarded as a waste
of resources. Your existence disproves that assumption. My group is gathering support for a measure that will give homosapiens rights again, and give
them universal access to basic enhancement techniques like those I performed
on your mother. The procedure is no longer particularly expensive.”
Art sat in silence for a moment.
“What would I need to do?” he said quietly.
PGR 82
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
“You would be required only to testify about your success in new-human society,” replied the man. “Not a difficult task, but there is, of course, risk
involved. Your family will be ruined when the public finds out about their
genetic abnormalities and you will become a highly valuable political target.”
The stranger retrieved his PC from his pocket and pressed a few buttons on it.
“You’re free to go. I’ve sent you my PC address. Let me know when
you make a decision.”
Sarah gave birth to Arthur in the same clinic at which she had received
the procedure nearly eight months prior. Vick had been barred from entering
the heart of the facility; instead, he paced the waiting room in what he realized must have been a very stereotypical manner for a husband with a wife
in labor. The enhancement procedure had costed them much less than he had
anticipated; however, they were required to return to this particular facility
when the baby was born. It seemed like quite a lucrative deal, as Vick supposed the black market often was. He was not worried for Sarah, for after all,
she was presumably being taken care of by new-human physicians, not the
questionably competent homosapien housewives that were available to most
of said breed. Still, the wait was agonizing. Vick never received the joyous
news he was expecting, never went to join his wife and see their beautiful
PGR 83
child in his arms for the first time. Instead, Sarah’s heartbroken sobbing was
all that Vick remembered from that morning; her cries of ‘they took him’ ringing in his ears.
“I’ve no paint to create a portrait…”
Art told no one about his encounter with the stranger. Upon arriving
at home he’d taken the elevator straight up to his personal suite, where he’d
stayed for hours, not talking to his parents and unable to concentrate on painting or studies. He did not call the man back for four agonizing days, during
which he considered every option scrupulously. He very nearly decided to
report the man to the authorities, figuring he could make a strong abduction
case against him. On the fourth day Art could no longer stand the questions
buzzing around in his head. He needed answers. He had long since memorized the man’s number; now, he input it into his PC, only hesitating slightly
before confirming the call request. The request was accepted after a few seconds of waiting.
“Hello, Artemis,” said the familiar voice. “Have you given my request
any consideration?”
Art had, more than he wanted to admit.
“Why do you want to save the Brutes?” he asked.
“I knew you would ask that question,” the man replied. “The truth is,
there are two reasons. The first is, our race is dying. When SEAD created the
first sample enhancements, there was an error in their genetic coding which
caused unusually high percentages of infertility. I am in a unique position to
see the number of couples each year incapable of having children, and that
number is increasing rapidly. Even with the new genetic material individuals like yourself contribute to the pool, these genetic defects will cause neohumanity will die out within a few centuries. The only way to counteract a
genetic trait such as that one is to introduce more genetic material to the pool.
The homosapien population is our only source of such material. The second
reason is because, in all of my time working with homosapien specimens, I
have come to see that their species has genetic potential. Given the ease with
which we can turn their offspring into children like yourself I don’t believe
our treatment of them is justified.”
Art’s thoughts of late had been similar. Over the last few days he’d
given deep thought to his society’s treatment of homosapiens, and wondered
about the true reason for denying them enhancements.
“As you prove, in some cases only one generation will be necessary to
integrate homosapien children into our society,” the man continued. “Think
of all that humanity could accomplish without the dichotomy we have today.”
Art thought of his parents, or at least the people who had raised him.
He realized he did not care how many reputations he had to ruin, how many
veils of deceit would be torn away by revealing his real genetic heritage.
“Well,” he began, speaking tentatively into his PC’s miniscule microphone, “I cannot say no to you. It seems I will have to say yes.”
I’ve no paint to create a portrait
I’ve no paintbrush
I’ve no palette—
A white canvas
Blank as the expression on my face
The artist without a muse
Left dumbfounded
To look elsewhere for inspiration
PGR 84
Andy O. F.
I can’t paint what I don’t know
Perception isn’t conducive to truth
All paintings done of you
Are but lies hanging on the walls
Does artist misconstrue what’s set before sight?
The product is what’s seen unique to the eye
Therefore I’ve told lies
Using the best oil paints
The finest canvases
So much so, that I mistook the portrait for the person
Paintbrush: artist’s solace and despair
Tool of creation
Instrument of deception
I’ve not merely told
But created lies
To be hung on the heart’s walls
Where they can’t be taken down
Where no one else but I can see them.
PGR 85
Sydni Indman
watch but cannot restrain themselves
they dart in and join the dance
I wonder about that slowly moving one
perhaps a gnat anthropologist
recording each move
some subtle step
to the left then to the right
a turn of wing
the rhythms of the dance
and over there, a gnat physicist
This Dance
Brian Bielefeld
gnats swirl above a young oak tree
they hover and dance
dive and circle
ten or fifteen at the most
a random thing
the gnats, the sun, the oak and me
each takes a part in this,
measuring temperature
the force of air movements
up drafts, down drafts
a precise explanation
of this seemingly chaotic dance
and in the midst of the dancers
the gnat poet
singing of love and comradeship
energy and dispersal
pausing occasionally to turn outward and see
the gnats, the sun, the oak and me
Diane Patrucuola
intense and eager
slow then fast
like three dimensional boxing rings
fighters who spar, bob and weave
the rings themselves rotate in space
the cloud then falls apart
the dance becomes too scattered
its purpose lost
then after a breath
starts again
a few observers hover and
PGR 86
PGR 87
Johnny (Deva Thyme)
Desert Ride
Trisha O’Connor Kett
Riding down the highway
Heading I know not where
Desert all around me
Sagebrush in dry air
Nothing but tumbleweeds, grasshoppers and dust
No one I can turn to, no one I can trust
Prickly Pear
Janet Trenchard
She knew now that what she needed was all this pale sand,
so cleansing and elemental, gently abrasive.
She set down the small paper bag
containing the prickly pear, wondering how
anyone ever got at the sweet fruit.
Wondering that anyone tried.
The old man next door had handed her the brown bag, saying
“So delicious. You just have to be careful.
Use a pliers.”
Maybe she should just dig a deep hole
and drop it in. Then no one would get hurt.
But infinite as the sand appears
the tides have the power to sweep back
vast curtains of it, and there it would be;
A dangerous fruit bleeding into the sand,
thorns threatening furiously.
No. She’d keep it.
She had a pliers.
And she had to taste it.
PGR 88
By daylight, I’m a wanderer
No one knows my name
By night, I’m just a shadow
Each night is just the same
Rolling like a tumbleweed, drifting from town to town
Freedom is my calling card; nothing holds me down
Far off in the distance
Mountains of misty blue
Shadows on the desert floor
Clouds just passing through
Somewhere, there’s moonlight, cool water flowing free
Smiling face and laughing eyes, someone meant for me
Riding down the highway
Going to change my desert ways
Had enough of nameless nights
Going to find someplace to stay
Heading for the mountains, cool waters for to find
Going to find a friend for life and some peace of mind.
PGR 89
Wildfire
Cheryl Gettleman
In September 2014, the King Fire consumed 97,000 acres in Placer County, California
Plumes of smoke twisted over hills
like dreams, shapes formed—
familiar, friendly, terrifying
all against the sky
framed by deep eternal twilight.
Devastation makes me hungry.
The long hot drive, the fire, the hours
spent at Forest Pines Convalescent.
The smoke, the moans, the antiseptic
scent that could not mask the future.
Andrew Barker
Water did not quench my thirst.
Slices of sweet cake tasted empty.
Peggy Hansen Snow Plant
PGR 90
PGR 91
Mountains and Rivers Without End
Magdalena Montagne
By the time you enter puberty
the purple passage opens wide.
A man in a blue fedora
leading you into a garden
Where timothy seed grows wild
underneath the cherry tree.
Tin Lizzie playing the drums that bear witness.
The flame of an April day growing stronger.
You kiss, you kiss, the earth tips…
Trees silent and still.
The bond like a covenant
bridging the distance between heaven and hell.
Your shirt is ripped
your hair is tousled
swept across your innocent face.
You kiss, you kiss, it hurts like this.
Moab, Utah
Kathryn deLancellotti
At midnight swigging gin
from the bottle we hiked
and watched our bodies
cast moon-shadows
against red rocks.
You said the land
was sacred to your people,
and that the pinnacles
we stood upon were the ancient
tombs of your ancestors.
You burnt a sprig of desert sage
and made a sweet-smoky offering
to the spirits in the sky.
The opal moon exposed blue
in your eyes.
You asked if we had met
someplace before.
But now you’re thirteen and you’ve discovered something
unbidden, the taste of fresh fig.
The bite of an apple seductive as summer’s ripeness,
as you are in the bloom of your girlhood.
What it means is everything and nothing.
Slip back to measured steps
down the walkway of your mother’s house.
Pretending you are just her child.
Yet coveting the whole world now,
mountains and rivers without end.
As if you could take it in, whole galaxies even.
Staunch and sweet and bitter.
So that you might rule something at last
other than your own limbs
that sway before you now unevenly.
Out of step with the rest of creation.
PGR 92
Nate Weir
PGR 93
Erich McIntosh
She’s no angel, she just drank a Red Bull.
Natalie Yang
Summer Wallen
Modeling to make ends meet
Robert Pesich
What does he paint now?
My lips? Does he show the scars
on my breasts and wrists?
My daughter, do you still sing
on your way home from night school?
PGR 94
PGR 95
Dominican Republic
Czech Republic, Prague
Azaz Nurcan
Sydni Indman
Sultanahmet Square, Istanbul
PGR 96
Beylerbeyi, Istanbul
PGR 97
Closing Time
Exhale
Reach Out
Davis Banta
PGR 98
There’s a River Inside Her Eyes
Sheriza
People hate that I flip two cigarettes
Upside down in each pack
for luck,
But I hate that people notice
When you gain three pounds,
But not when you buy a new hat.
I’ve been told that the way I sleep
With one leg draped over
The person lying next to me
Is annoying,
But I think it’s annoying
When people tell me
I look pretty,
But only when I paint my face.
I’ve heard that old men
Like to touch the girls who work late at bars,
But I want to know
Why they never kiss the women they married
fourty-two years ago.
I’ve noticed that mothers teach their daughters
That it’s rude to refuse a hug
From an uncle they’ve met three times,
But forget to teach them
That they aren’t obliged to kiss
The boy who paid for dinner.
Robyn Marshall
PGR 99
A Night On The Subway
Helene Simkin Jara
I’m just going to stay down here in the subway station until a pretty
young thing comes by. At least one should come by soon, even though it’s late.
One is all I ask and she’d better be alone.
I’m alone here in the subway station. Why isn’t anyone else here? It’s kind of
creepy. It’s past 1 a.m. and I just came back from a Ravi Shankar concert. Ragas are
dancing in my head. I splurged on that concert because it’s my last weekend in New
York City. I’ve been living 3,000 miles away from home for 6 months and I miss my
little sisters a lot. New York is really a little too exciting for me. I don’t think I’ve ever
had a good night’s sleep. Not even once.
It’s been so long since I’ve touched a woman. So long. Of course I
probably won’t get to touch one even if she is alone and she might scream.
I’m so horny. I’m so, so horny. Why is it that no women ever want me. They
just take one look and turn away. It’s not fair. What do they want anyway? It’s
been over an hour now and no one has come down the steps. Three trains have
come and gone. Oh…what’s that? I hear someone walking down the steps. It’s
a young girl. She looks about 18 or 19. I’m going to hide behind this pillar. She
doesn’t know I’m here. I’m being very quiet holding my swollen penis in my
hand. It’s sticking out beyond the pillar. I hope she sees it. That idea excites me.
I’m looking in the direction of where the train comes. Oh, what’s that? I think I
hear movement behind the pillar that’s a couple of feet away from me.
Oh God, she’s so pretty, so innocent looking. I don’t dare touch her yet.
I can’t bear to hear her scream or see her turn away with that look they always
get.
And then I saw it. A penis. I have not seen very many of them. I barely gave
away my virginity a few months ago before I fled to New York.
Yes! She saw it. She looks scared. She better not run away.
I hear the train coming just as I see a middle-aged, heavyset short man with
bulging eyes appear from behind the column. The train’s brakes screech; the doors open
and I bolt in. The man is directly behind me as I sit down across from him, my heart
beating off rhythm, my mouth parched, my head hot. The Ravi Shankar music is no
longer in my head, the concert forgotten.
Uh, oh, here comes the train. I don’t have time to zip up my fly. I’ll just
follow her onto the train.
He is sitting down directly across from me and zipping up his fly. He is looking
directly at me. There are a couple of people in the car, typical New Yorkers, minding
their own business. I wish they wouldn’t. I wish they knew how terrified I am.
I’m sitting across from her. She’s trying not to look at me. She did see
me zipping up my fly though. That excites me. She’s staring at the cop at the
entrance to the car. She better not tell him.
My focus is on the police officer who is assigned to our car. He looks young. I
try to catch his eye, my mind racing. He’s finally looking at me. I’m thinking, what am
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I going to say to him? How can I prove anything? Why would I know what a penis
looks like? Will I have to stay longer in New York and miss my flight home if I have to
testify or anything? I look away and hold my breath.
Oh, she just jumped off at this stop. I’m going to chase her. If I get lucky
and catch her I’m going to make her suck me off. Oh yes. If only I can catch
her. She’s running up those steps. It’s hard to catch up with her. I don’t weigh
what I used to 30 years ago in my prime, when I was her age.
At my stop, as the doors open, I scramble off the car and start climbing the
20 or so steps to the street level. I can hear the man running behind me, grunting,
huffing, yelling, “Pussy! Whore! Slut!”
Now she’s walking fast. Why isn’t she running? Does she want me
to catch up with her? I can hardly catch my breath, that slut, that pussy, that
whore! I keep yelling that at her to punish her for walking so fast, but she’s
not turning around. I hope she hears me. I hope that scares her. I want her to
feel as bad as I do.
The brownstone I am living in is two blocks away. I want to run, but my legs
suddenly turn to cement walking in quicksand. I can barely walk fast. No way can I
run. What’s wrong with my legs? I am still a little bit faster than he is, but only by a
few feet. As I approach my building, I reach into my purse for my keys. I can hear him
grunting, panting, yelling, “Pussy! Whore! Slut!” Oh God! He is gaining on me. I
finally find the right key for the front door, turn it, open it and run down the hallway.
I am searching frantically for the remaining 3 keys I need to get into my apartment.
Now she’s run into her building and she’s got her keys in her hand just
as I’m opening the entrance door behind her. It looks like she’s got 3 locks.
Good. Maybe I can catch up with her before she gets them all opened. “Pussy!
Whore! Slut!”
I can tell by how dark it is that my roommate isn’t home. She is hardly ever
home, too busy picking up married men in bars. One–click–two–click–three—click.
I’m inside, shutting the door, just as he falls against it with a thud.
Oh, no, she’s in. Damn it to hell. I’m falling against her door and banging
on it with my fists. Damn her, damn her! Damn her and all the women in the
world! Damn you! “Pussy! Whore! Slut!”
He pounds on the door as I lock it from the inside. I collapse onto the floor next
to the door, ready to keep it closed with my weight if need be. He pounds and yells for
what seems like an eternity. And then it stops. I put my ear next to the door hearing
him walk down the hallway muttering to himself, cursing me.
I can’t hear anything behind her door. She’s not making a sound. Why
isn’t she even crying? I would like to hear her crying at least. I continue to
bang on her door until my hand hurts. Damn her. I give up. I’ll never get in.
That whore. That slut. I’m going back to the subway. It’s only 2 a.m. Maybe
another pretty young thing will be waiting for a train. Maybe I’ll get lucky
this time.
I wait until I hear the front door of the building shut before I curl up into a
fetal position on the floor in front of the door. Several hours later, maybe 4 a.m., I hear
a gentle knock.
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What if we took a breath…
Marie Boucher
What if that man with the gun
had taken a deep breath
{inhale….exhale deeply}
and refused to submit
to Fear,
What if he had chosen
Empathy and
saw Fear as a ruse,
not an ally,
not an excuse.
What if he had looked
upon the boy as he was,
walking with a friend,
to see his grandmother,
not seeking a fight,
but bestowed
with the right
to be seen
and heard,
just like everybody else.
{inhale….exhale deeply}
What if he had seen
the boy inside the man
and seen himself
inside the boy
and became the man
he could later be
proud to say
saw his own reflection
and with that changed
his reaction?
What if at every encounter and
human interaction,
our first response were
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to take
a long
deep
breath
{inhale….exhale deeply}
So we could
better assess
the true nature
of the other
before
we act
or react
with hateful words
or deeds
provoked by
Fear and
unknowing.
What if we taught
mindfulness
in schools
along with
reading,
writing, and
algebra?
What if EQ trumped IQ
and that were the true measure
of human success?
{inhale….exhale deeply}
How well we
listen, love, and learn
how well we treat
others with respect and
kindness
What if that were
the new rule at school,
the true test of
our abilities…
Our humanity?
{inhale….exhale deeply}
What if we
stripped off
labels that bind and
separate,
all judgment
related to gender and
race, bypassed ego
and went
to the core
of the boy
whose
DNA was
essentially
the same as that of
the man opposite
him with the
barrel aimed at
his head.
What if we
took a deep breath
{inhale….exhale deeply}
to pause
and look
each other
in the eyes
and realize
that
that boy is the
same as you and I
{inhale….exhale deeply}
Potency lies
in the power
of restraint,
to reject the lies
and see clearly
the one whose
gaze locks
with yours
saying,
We are both
brothers
who entered
the portal
of life from
our mothers,
Your life is not
more valuable than
mine; we are two of a
kind.
Two with the same
color blood coursing
through our
veins, let that
be the mirror.
The pursuit
of happiness is not
a one way street
that can only be
navigated by the elite.
It belongs to us all:
black, white, native, short and
tall,
speakers of every language,
all colors and creeds.
We are more alike than
different, yet we parade
around in facades of
indifference,
displaying banners of
rage and sometimes
forgiveness,
Yet we forget
to take that deep breath
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{inhale….exhale deeply}
and Remember
If we weren’t so
possessed by Fear
and were more guided
by Love,
then we would not
use weapons
against another,
as we’d know
that’d be like
killing ourselves
or our own brother.
We are the boy
who reached out
offering free hugs
accepting one
from the man
who would be
his perceived enemy.
We are the ones
bowing down to our own
greatness with humility.
We are the ones
that need to be seen.
heard and understood.
We take a breath and discover
{inhale….exhale deeply}
We are the ones
that can heal and be healed by Love.
We are the ones
no longer enslaved by the gaze.
We are the ones
whose reflection we see in the other
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KOAK
We are the ones
who know the truth:
We are ONE.
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Suspension of Disbelief
Reeva Bradley
My heart, my gorgeous beauty
is far away from me.
and with alcohol and honesty, in a familiar city, I submit to another
former lover
and we find how again
our maladaptive attempts at love
were failures masquerading as possibility.
even with our examined loss, we are tied together and,
fumbling, I ignore my promises and move towards him. his lips and hands are clumsy but
I know I wanted this once
and
I let his hands expand into my space
a few moments of cricket-worthy silence, he lets me out, and I gratefully go
relieved, and awkward,
my cheeks are red
Shame, disappointment have crashed the party
and almost frozen, I run away,
finding my way home
and when I’m alone again, I need to call her, or anyone.
I need to talk, but my guilt is loud and I’m quiet.
I can’t talk,
but I need to, I need to.
I need to push his wrist away
But I melt with yearning when he whispers
“Let me touch you,
please.”
Without recourse, and without bravery,
we rock,
Turning into violent passion
and I’m hoping…
but no, i have to stop
oh no, no, it’s sharp and I’m the casualty
embarrassed, I tell him that it hurts.
he’s concerned, what a relief,
but predictably sex-hungry
he asks me to take care of him.
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Nate Weir
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The Door
Grandmother’s Time
The entrance to my one bedroom studio
is in the darkest corner of the room and
the wooden frame of the door
peels and cracks at the bottom.
The edges so jagged,
like rows of shark teeth.
I shiver
when I stare at the
rotten wood,
the craggy outcrop of splinters,
the gnarled edges
scraping against the carpet.
I imagine,
small insects,
their long narrow pinchers
protruding from their jaws,
burrowing through from the outside…
I clench my thighs,
feeling like that mangled paneling
will violate me.
It unnerves me.
My knees to my chin,
I sit on my bed
across from that door,
my eyes stay wide open,
keeping my gaze towards the opposite wall.
I can’t even walk over there,
to touch the wood
would be to gag,
and it’s in my room,
wretched and cheap and falling apart.
I watch it,
disintegrate further
before the nightmares begin each night.
I have to get out,
but there’s only that one door.
Grandmother said it was her time;
she had to go;
packed a small fur lined bag,
let the door slap
behind her,
with a one way ticket,
picked up by a fancy limo driver
sure to follow her instructions
exactly; She left behind a
stack of blankets,
slippers and sundries that
she would’ve otherwise
packed on any journey.
Joan Maro
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Marie Boucher
She didn’t listen to
appeals for her to stay.
She left with
a single stuffed bag slung
over her shoulder
stuffed with just enough to
keep her comfortable for
for a night or two,
before the vultures came.
She must’ve read
about the Tibetan sky
cemeteries, when she
made her decision
to offer herself up
to the elements
and wild cats in the
wilderness.
It wasn’t for another few days until
her body was found,
her arms tethered and
suspended between two
redwood trees,
the long tresses of her hair
bobbing in the wind,
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earth and its creatures,
by allowing her body
to nourish them. She always
wanted to be useful and of service.
She could no longer feel her body
swaying in the wind,
one with the air
rushing through
her, the ancestors
calling her home,
allowing her
to become
one with it all.
Three Strikes for Rutaganda1
KOAK
Geneffa Popatia Jonker
or the hundreds you had shot and swept into pits filled with gravel,
and surely not the Tutsis you tracked down and had thrown in a river.
I reckon it was the first, and all the others came easy after that, didn’t they Georges?
Mechanical, maniacal, the slight resistance of flesh, the easy slicing after that.
Was it three times the machete came down, Georges?
Incredulity makes me lean on my disbelief with two syllables—
the monosyllabic English why over too soon.
Pourquoi? For what, works better in this instance.
And you understand the French—don’t you, Georges?
The language you learned alongside your native Kinyarwanda,
forgetting it was Belgians, not Tutsis, who infected your tongue.
And it’s three blows that rain down like a blade upon my brain
as you smirk three syllables back at me: pour...quoi...pas?
Why not? There are lawyers to cover this sort of thing.
Your image after all—a father of three who receive condolences
from the council that condemned you when you rot from illness years later.
Were you trying to spare families the grief of mourning
when you took them down together, Georges?
Did you fancy the babe a soft landing when he fell strapped to his mother’s back?
As you spoke of your father’s position in the church, your schooling in agriculture,
did you really think such details could soften any blows, Georges?
“He maintains his innocence,” your supporters insist,
even as you robbed it from the girls you kept shivering at your Amgar garage.
How does a man maintain his innocence after counts such as these, Georges?
One for genocide. One for crimes against humanity. One for murder.
When you said you didn’t do it, Georges, which “it” did you mean?
(Written on the 20th Anniversary of the Rwandan genocide)
How many acts of genocide does it take to make a genocide?
—Keir Pearson, Hotel Rwanda
You stand as your charges are read:
one count of genocide
one count of crimes against humanity
and one count of murder.
What I wonder about is the murder...
the person who gets to be counted apart from the group or even the rest of humanity.
Who was it, Georges, who got to be singled out so?
Was it someone you knew whose blood called out to you special?
Because it wasn’t the ten you had dumped in a hole and plugged up,
1 Georges Rutaganda, founder and vice president of the Interahamwe, a youth militia, was convicted for his part in the Rwandan genocide of 1994 at the International Criminal Tribunal for
Rwanda in Arusha, Tanzania. He died in 2010 while serving a life sentence in Benin.
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KOAK
Iraqi Currency Scheme
Jeff Wille
The story in the Financial Times reports that 3 men have been arrested
by US Marshals in Chicago and that the men are expected to be indicted shortly on numerous charges, including, conspiracy to commit wire
fraud, money laundering, hedge fund manipulation and falsifying security reports to defraud investors. Furthermore, the story goes on to
identify the 3 men, which includes Charlie Barrow.
Barry Newman felt that life was always dealing him one card short
of having a winning hand. Even though he made a respectable living, albeit
modest, owning and managing the local hardware store in Gary Indiana, he
usually felt some discontent when he would run into an old acquaintance that
had made a significant success of themselves. Barry certainly was not jealous
or even envious of other people’s successes; in fact he thoroughly enjoyed listening to the stories that accompanied those achievements. But afterwards, he
always felt somewhat nonplussed why some guys seemed to have more luck
in their lives than he had.
Barry is married to Betty who was his high school sweetheart and they
have been together for 33 years. They have two children, Tom and Linda,
ages 24 and 27 respectively who both have graduated from college and have
moved out from Gary. Tom is an apprentice stock broker at a large wire house
in Chicago and Linda is a registered nurse at a regional hospital in Indianapolis. When Barry thinks about how their children are starting to live their lives,
he swells with pride on what he and Betty have accomplished as parents.
One day when Barry stops in at the Tropics Café for his end of day
libation, he runs into Charlie Barrow who was Barry’s close running mate in
high school. Barry hasn’t seen Charlie for over 20 years and he’s amazed just
how good Charlie looks.
Charlie is talking to Ginger, the bartender, when Barry puts an arm
over Charlie’s shoulder and says to Ginger, “Ginger, when did you start allowing this kind of Riff-Raff in the Tropics?”
Charlie turns around and breaks into a huge grin and says, “Dude, I
was hoping that I might run into you here!” Both Barry and Charlie give each
other a big hug,
Then Ginger says, “Your friend here was asking about you and I told
him to stay put for a few minutes and chances are, that you would show up.”
Barry tells Ginger, “This guy got me into more trouble in high school
than I could ever think of doing on my own, but we sure had fun!”
Charlie says to Ginger, “Hey Ginger, could you please draw us a couple of Hamm’s and send them over that that booth in the back?”
“OK guys, no problem”, says Ginger.
“Come on man”, says Charlie putting his arm over Barry’s shoulder,
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“Let’s get caught up, plus there’s something that I want to talk to you about.”
Ginger brings Barry and Charlie their beers and a basket of newly
popped pop-corn and says, “Just give me a heads up when you guys want
another drink.”
“Thanks Ginger.” Barry says.
Charlie tells Barry that he’s been living in Miami Florida for the past 10
years and he’s on his way to Chicago to meet with some of his business partners. He continues to tell Barry that for that past few years he’s been working
with a Florida hedge fund that specializes in foreign currency investments
and he’s making a killing. Then, he tells Barry, “I thought of you when I was
making my arrangements to come up to Chicago because I think this might be
something you might be interested in.”
“Charlie, I appreciate the thought but I’m not a hedge fund kind of guy.
I own and run a hardware store in Gary Indiana.”
“Barry, I know that and that’s why I think this can be a home-run for
you. Right now we’re managing a significant portfolio of Iraqi Dinars and are
attempting to close this particular fund before the end of the year, before Iraq
devalues the Dinar. And once Iraq devalues the Dinar, every dollar invested
in this fund will return a profit of 12 times its investment. Last year I had invested $75,000 in the previous fund and I walked away with over $900,000 in
clear profit.”
Charlie says, “Listen, I know this isn’t something that you can decide
right now but think about it, talk to Betty and give me a call in a couple of
days. If you think it’s something you might be interested in, we can have a
conference call with the CEO of the company, who happens to live right down
the block from me in Biscayne Bay.”
Barry and Charlie say their good-byes in the parking lot and Charlie
says, “It’s great seeing you again Barry. I’ll be in Chicago for the next 3 days,
so I’ll give you a call before I head back to Florida.”
“Safe travel’s Charlie!” says Barry.
Barry heads home with visions of hitting a financial home run and
looks forward to telling Betty about running into Charlie and the opportunity
they have at hand.
Barry parks in the attached garage and walks into the kitchen where Betty is
stirring something on the stove, which Barry thinks smells outstanding.
Barry says, “Hey honey, how was your day?”
Betty looks up and says, “Tommy called today and he’s coming down
for the weekend so I’ve been cleaning up his room; I’ve kind of been using it
as a storage area since he moved up to Chicago last year.”
“Guess who I ran into today? Charlie Barrow!”
“Charlie Barrow? I haven’t heard that name in a long, long time. How’s
he doing?”
“He’s doing great. He lives in Florida and is making a boatload of money managing investments for a hedge fund down there which specializes in
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foreign currency investments.” Then Barry says, “He’s meeting with his partners in Chicago and says he’s willing to let us piggy-back with him on his
current investment in a fund which is closing before the end of the year.”
Betty looks incredulous at Barry and says, “Are you nuts? What in the
world do you know about hedge funds or foreign currency investments?”
Barry says, “That’s just the thing babe, I don’t need to know how these
things work, we would simply ride with Charlie on what he is already doing.
Hell, last year he made over $900,000 of profit on a $75,000 investment and he
says he’s investing even more in this fund.”
Then Barry says, “Honey, just think about it for a couple of days. I’ve
already figured that we could easily come up with $150,000 between the house
which is paid off, and with a second mortgage on the hardware store. Based
on what Charlie made last year, if we invested $150,000 we could make over
$1.8 million!”
Betty just stares at Barry and says, “I really don’t want to get into a
discussion right now about this, so yes, I’ll think about it for a couple of days.
Let’s enjoy the weekend with Tommy and we can talk about it on Monday,
OK?”
“OK.” Barry thinks that he isn’t sure whether Betty is simply placating
him, but at least she isn’t digging in her heels and saying No Way Jose!
Friday night, Tommy arrives early in the evening and they all go out
to dinner at the Outback Steak House in Gary. Tommy tells them on how well
things are going for him at the brokerage house and how much he loves living
in the Lincoln Park neighborhood. They talk about Linda’s job in Indianapolis
and then they head home after having a great desert of an Australian Outback
Mud Pie.
Saturday morning Barry comes into the kitchen and puts on a full pot
of coffee. After the coffee pot starts to percolate, Tommy walks in carrying his
laptop and says “Good Morning Pop. Last night was fun, it sure seems like it’s
been a long time since we all had dinner together.”
Barry says, “I agree, it’s great to have you home son. I know your mother is overjoyed having you home for the weekend.”
Tommy is booting up his laptop and Barry asks, “Are you going to be
doing work over coffee?”
“Nah Pop, I just read my financial newspapers on line. It’s easier and
quicker, especially when I’m traveling, like this weekend.”
Barry decides to feel Tommy out on the opportunity which Charlie has
offered and how he and his mom could make up to $1.8 million before the end
of the year.
Tommy listens intently, and does not interrupt Barry. When Barry finishes, Charlie simply spins his laptop around so Barry can see the headlines
in the Saturday edition of the Financial Times.
KOAK
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PGR 115
Enkidu
Alison Koffler
He had never seen the walls of Uruk,
or known the blood-scent of metal.
Enkidu lived among the animals.
He knew the tracks of the forest,
Sydni Indman
the unrelenting cycles of sun
and moon. All was unchanged
Hatchings
Janet Trenchard
Once I woke up inside
a sandstorm and crawled
out on my belly .
I stood up and saw
with the eyes of a god,
and breathed the pure air
ringing with my laughter.
Now, years later,
driving home from the store,
I wake up again as if from a dream,
astonished to find myself
in a mechanical wilderness
of tangled streets and buildings.
I open the car door
like a baby bird cracking its shell
stand up, look around in wonder,
the key in my hand, an X
that says “you are here”
on a map of the moon.
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until the woman appeared. Enkidu had
never known a being like her, wild as lynx
or onager: the backflung sweep of her hair,
her sleek hot skin and scent of honey and salt
with its strange under-tang of creosote,
an alien savor of cities. She beckoned to him,
arms braceleted in gilt and gems, her dark eyes
ringed with kohl. She taught him a speech
beyond the animals’ silence and cries.
Her words were green rain, a snake dancing,
the towers of an alabaster city. Enkidu fell
into her arms, into himself and into time.
Enkidu found another kind of sleep,
like running up a glass mountain,
then leaping into darkness, warm-scented
as the breathing flanks of animals.
Enkidu dreamed. He saw that the hand
that stroked the beast’s head dropped seeds
in the furrow, shaped vessels of clay, wooed
the grapevine from the earth. He dreamed
of a flood ravaging and receding, lapping
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the land in dark, fertile silt. Enkidu slept,
the woman curled beside him. The king
arrived with the light. His words were a scepter
of bronze, a road of crushed stone, a straight line
in the earth etched with the tip of a javelin.
The king stretched forth his hand. Unquestioning,
Enkidu rose and left her, asleep on the cold ground.
The animals wept, tears striping their furry muzzles.
Enkidu strapped on the buckler of hardened hide,
the helmet and greaves of bronze chased with gold.
The two men pounded each other on the back,
ready to fight demons and defy the gods.
They marched off, clashing, singing songs
call out, remember our life, but words are ash
on the tongue. It’s as if they’re leaving for good,
the transport’s rolled up, orders barked through
loudspeakers, dust rises in blaring heat, a roar
of engines, weapons locked and loaded, men scramble
aboard shouting as explosives wail through the air,
and the great machines thunder
in formation beneath skies glittering
with phalanxes of steel wings.
My love, I wait for you in the forest,
in this last unbroken tract of wilderness,
in the darkness where animals still weep.
of slaughter. Some thousands of years later,
my husband drives a fellow writer to the Albany
airport, they’re chatting leftist politics and poetry.
And there’s me in the back seat, the thoughtful wife,
a nature poet at the height of her powers, still smart
and attractive, if truth be told, though getting a little
plump, a serious woman with coiled, graying hair.
It’s been a good weekend, the reading and panel
discussion. Both men are veterans, Iraq and
Vietnam. As we turn onto I-87, the talk turns,
they’re trading stories of war and it sounds like
some blood-crazed summer camp, the games
as I’m staring at the stiffness in their shoulders,
excitement sharpening their voices; I want to
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Joe Doudna
and grudges, boys in barracks bristling and scrabbling
for dominance. But still, the harsh allure of it,
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OVERKILL
S. Rain Mathis
Rila ducks then springs out the passenger door. She takes
cover behind a different car. Another car lays adjacent,
mostly undamaged.
She peers through the rear view mirror of the adjacent
car to see three people. They navigate through the array
of damaged cars. They are heavily armored and carry large
guns. Their armor is branded with a chaos symbol across
the back and they wear helmets.
A woman pulls herself out of her car, badly injured. She
reaches out for help. They blatantly ignore her. While
in cover, Rila loads her gun. Her enemies move down the
highway, she moves from car to car, hunched over to keep
out of sight.
The armored men & women reach the red Pontiac. They look
inside the car, then signal to each other to move forward.
Rila is still crouched behind the car, Man #1 can be seen
closing in on her position.
We see Man #1’s heavy boots crunch against the broken
glass
on the floor from underneath the car.
He steps past Rila. Before he sees her she shoots his
ankle.
Woman #2 And Santos hear the shot and point their guns in
the direction.
Man #1 falls onto the ground. Rila springs on him and
quickly disassembles his Kevlar vest to put it on herself.
He reaches up to fight her, she reaches back into her boot
and pulls out a knife. She plunges it into his chest and
then quickly back into her boot.
With the Kevlar vest on, she steals his gun switches her
hiding position behind the same car. Woman #2 and Santos
inch forward. Rila leaps out of her hiding spot and fires
her gun. Woman #2 and Santos take cover. Rila retreats
behind another car.
PGR 120
Rila spots a WOUNDED MAN with a SMALL CHILD in his arms
hidden behind a car. As Woman #2 approaches the car, he
puts his child down and stands up, his hands in the air.
WOUNDED MAN
I surrender!
Without a moments hesitation, woman #2 shoots the man
and he falls to the ground. The small child screams, and
resonates in Rila’s mind’s eye. Rila glances toward the
highway behind her and the child in front of her. Shot to
Rila’s face, her eyes illuminated by the sunlight.
Back to the terrified child behind the car. She rolls her
eyes and dashes out of cover toward the child.
As woman #2 rounds the corner to see the child, a shot fires
into her Kevlar covered chest. She staggers back and falls
onto the ground. Rila sprints to the car and dives behind
it. She grabs the child.
Woman #2 lifts her arm off the pavement, gun still in hand.
Rila looks over. She ducks and pulls the child down with
just in time to dodge the bullet.
Rila shoots woman #2 in the chest again and her arm falls
back down to the pavement. She places her bloodied hand
over the small child’s mouth to keep her quiet.
Through a neighboring car’s side view mirror, Rila sees
Santos slowly approach. While Rila is distracted the child
slips out of her arms and runs away. Santos slides across
the hood of a car in the direction of the child.
She lifts her gun to fire but the clip is empty.
RILA
Shit.
Santos continues pursuit of the child. Rila darts from car
to car in an attempt to get to the child first. Santos grabs
the small child, pulling his gun to her head. He takes his
helmet off.
PGR 121
SANTOS
Come out, come out wherever you
are.
Santos peers through the wreckage to search for Rila. She
hides behind a car.
SANTOS
(Mockingly) Rilaaa.
Rila kicks the gun upwards and charges him again. She
grabs the gun with both hands and pushes it against his
chest until he falls to the ground. Her biceps glisten in
the sun with blood and sweat.
She viciously pushes the gun onto the man’s throat, her
face twisted with determination. She takes the gun off his
throat and points her gun into her face.
RILA
You should have just let me stab
you.
He loads his gun. Small child whimpers. Rila curses to
herself, steps out from behind a car.
RILA
Let her go.
Santos smiles and lets the small child go. Small child
runs off.
SANTOS
Play times over, Rila.
He lifts his gun and shoots her. She falls back and hits
the pavement. She gasps for air. Santos boot’s crunch
against debris on the ground as he walks over. Her hand
reaches down toward the knife in her boot. Santos squats
down next to Rila.
SANTOS
Now why don’t you give me back the
flash drive before you hurt yourself?
Rila’s hand grasp the hilt of her knife.
RILA
Go to hell.
She lands a push kick into Santos’ hip. He stumbles back.
Rila springs onto her feet. She lunges at Santos. He
blocks her knife thrust with his gun. He knocks the knife
out of her hand.
Santos strikes Rila with the end of his gun. She stumbles
back against a car. Santos lifts his gun. Rila kicks the
gun upwards and charges him again.
PGR 122
She fires her gun. She steps off him, his blood splattered
all over her clothes and face, and takes his gun. She finds
her knife on the ground and wipes the blood off on her pant
leg. Beloved is engraved on the blade with an elaborate
design on the hilt. She puts the knife back into her boot.
She eyes the small child running off in the distance and
heads in the same direction. As she treks through the
highway wasteland she comes across Woman #2. Her helmet
is off, a line of blood trails down her face. She leans
against a car. Without looking, Rila fires shots into
Woman #2. Rila continues down the highway without hesitation.
The
her
the
the
small child limps across the highway, tears streaking
face. Rila briskly walks behind her, and grabs her by
shirt. The child squirms but lets Rila drag her down
road.
Rila finds an undamaged car at the end of the wreck and
opens the passenger door. She tosses the small child
inside.
RILA
Stay here and wait for the police.
Rila goes to shut the door, the small child looks
apprehensive.
SMALL CHILD
Wait, aren’t youPGR 123
RILA
Don’t make me threaten you.
The small child nods and Rila slams the door shut. A
helicopter flies over head and lands on the empty highway a
few hundred feet away. Police sirens are heard overhead,
along with other helicopters. She runs toward the landed
helicopter and hops in.
Ferdd Lansang
KOAK
PGR 124
PGR 125
How Brightly Their Secrets Shine
Rosie King
I search in my sleep
in the watery air
The faces float above
streaming light
hands dipping down to me
his ring a green stone
Joe Doudna
the daughter who moved
to a coast smelling of fog and strange trees
What Stars do Tell
Jon Turner
her diamonds
star flecks
Last night I had a dream, of carving
with my bare hands, a piece
I see them young
new mother and father
of wood. I watched curled shavings
wisp to the ground beneath me.
they hold me in the shallows
with minnows
Tiny moths they became,
flickering lights like fireflies
in a field as they reached the sky and places
thought will only touch. I followed
and the shadows of clouds
them as far as these eyes
would allow, calm, as though my grandmother was calling for me, like
she did from the stoop, when I was hiding
in the brush with gooseberries and warm
bread. I listened for the embers of her voice,
and the sound of her leaving another
plate for me by the popal door.
PGR 126
PGR 127
Village, fringed by the crispness of dawn
Dan Jeffrey
Here
in this village
where they tend the flocks
of blood and wax
endlessly toiling
in fields of their own making
there is no man, there
is no land, there
is no angel, here
over this village
where the wind sleeps
the sun sits in his
fiery orb between
the legs of trees
on the edge of the village
where they tend the flocks
of sweat and skin
their brains splayed on the walk
endlessly toiling
in the cool embrace of twilight
the fields are rolling
away from this village
where they tend the flocks
and the raven crows
in the morning
and the moon watches
with a watery eye
over the village of empty doors
there is no man, there
is no soul, there
is no beauty in the eye
no wax in the candles
no mist in the clouds
no children in the womb
no fire in the hearth
no warmth in the sheets
no honey in the comb
no solace—
Peggy Hansen Death Valley
here
in this village
where the wind sleeps
PGR 128
PGR 129
At the Farmers’ Market
Jeanie Greensfelder
I’m standing in line to buy this week’s soup.
Someone I know comes up behind me,
places her hands on my shoulders and says,
Sweetheart, you can make your own soup.
Then she walks off, having pushed
my you-don’t-know-how-to-live button:
I’m back in seventh grade home economics,
when the teacher asked, Who knows how to make soup?
I’m the only one to raise a hand, and with pride, I said,
First, you open the can…
Then I’m in in the college psychology library
searching for the secrets to life before they were
sold on every street corner, when they were
written in jargon, when a professor said,
Go through the motion to get the emotion,
and when a friend teased, and said, The secrets
to the universe are in the glove compartment.
And then there’s the day I heard James Taylor sing—
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.
PGR 130
Peggy Hansen, Hachiya
I sigh, and buy my guilt-flavored corn chowder,
and as I leave the market, I see the woman
who sent me on this journey. She’s buying
zucchini and cauliflower, and I control my urge to
put my hands on her shoulders, and say,
Sweetheart, you can grow your own vegetables.
Azaz Nurcan
Plague on Locust Street
Ed Weingold
Jennifer Rudd white-knuckled her craving for a cigarette after nine
years clean. Two armed robberies within two weeks—three doors away and
six houses down across the street—fueled her nervousness. She had begun
anti-anxiety medication a week before, but side effects that morning only
worsened her mood. To be proactive, she forwarded an email with a link to
the latest robbery account to five of her neighbors. Within hours, the cumulative stress was peaking on Locust Street,
a usually charming residential block dotted with Craftsman style cottages,
modest Victorians, and California-Spanish stuccos. Residents scowled behind
their doors hearing sixteen-year-olds Logan O’Hara and Kat Lucas taunt each
other as they cut their high school classes. “Yeah? My boobs aren’t as tiny as
your balls!” Kat rasped. “Little titty, little titty,” Logan bawled. Their crassness
shredded the nerves of Muriel Carothers, who lived in the Craftsman on the
corner. Already annoyed at Jennifer’s alarmist email, Muriel dialed the high
school. Ruby Diaz, the principal’s secretary listened politely while Muriel
described the kids’ profanity-laced shouting “especially, today.” Ruby, fighting
a hunger headache, wished it were Friday, 2:59 PM, instead of Tuesday noon.
When Muriel paused for a breath, the secretary broke in to say she would
relay Mrs. Carothers’ concerns to Mr. Dixon. PGR 131
“Yeah, sure,” Muriel said with an edge.
The secretary bristled. “We take our students’ behavior—” But she was
talking to dead air. Ruby set down the phone, disinclined to bother Principal
Dixon. Rose Johnson, three doors from Muriel, nerves rubbed raw by her
uncommunicative husband, Mark, began escalating. “You always shut down.
You take a hike as soon as we’re getting someplace.” Mark felt his jaw tighten. “Where do you go? Damn it. Where are you?” Rose’s voice became a
distant whine to Mark, like an auto transmission failing. The ringing in his
ears was his signal to walk out the front door. The word was “coward.”
But when Rose summoned all her voice to bellow the word after his
retreating steps, it sounded like “KRRRRRRGH!” Mark’s ears rang even
louder as the leaf blower across the street roared to life. The machine, operated by a landscape contractor’s employee, became
so irritating to Sally Matthews that she flung open her front door and shouted,
“Turn that damned thing off!” Sally was a fiftyish divorcee prone to bouts of
eczema. After she read Jennifer’s worrisome email about the neighborhood
robberies, she noticed that her skin condition, usually just a mild rash, had
become a raging itch. The leaf blower operator, Jose Ramos, wearing a headset of noisemuffling baffles, never heard her. He went about his work, oblivious to the
annoyance. Sally became dangerously quiet, furious that he was ignoring her.
She was the daughter of a Montana horse rancher who had fled to the Central
Coast to escape the bitter winters. When Dad died a year before, she moved
a truckload of furniture and horse tack from the family ranch to the garage
behind her white, green-trimmed cottage. Jose Ramos blew a mass of sycamore leaves onto a worn blue tarp. He
was thinking about the ESL essay due at the Adult School that evening. He
would race home to his wife, Lety, kiss his month-old baby boy, wolf down
dinner, and read through the essay he had struggled to write that weekend,
“Why I Love Being in California.” He was suddenly terrified that he had
misused the preposition. Was it in California or on California? He would
have to check his handout on prepositions, he was thinking, when he saw the
neighbor lady in her doorway, mouth moving, and arms waving. After three years of pick-up jobs, Jose had finally landed steady
work with the Eden Gardening Company. He was conscientious, polite, and
determined to make a good impression. He flipped the leaf blower off and
pulled one sound muffler from his ear to listen to the neighbor. But what he
saw and heard was the woman’s slamming door. Jose shrugged, replaced his
ear protection, and turned his blower on. Sally, livid, had flung her front door
shut, rattling a shelf of bric-a-brac. She scratched the gnawing itch spreading
up her arms and down her palms. Determinedly, she walked into the garage
to root through partly unpacked boxes.
She strode around the side of her house and cast a venomous eye
PGR 132
toward the continuing racket. She drew back her arm and cracked the twentyfoot bullwhip that snapped a foot from the startled landscape worker. Jennifer,
who owned the shedding sycamore, was stepping out of her car, irritated at
the cost of the unopened pack of cigarettes she succumbed to buying. Jose silenced his blower and tore off his ear protection. “Whatta,
Whatta—mujer loca?” Sally drew back the whip to strike again. “Sally!” Jennifer screeched. “Put that whip down—right now!” “And I’ll flay you too, Jennifer!” Sally screamed. “Your filthy
goddamned sycamore and that stupid landscape company are breaking my
eardrums.” “If you spent some time keeping down the weeds on your lawn,”
Jennifer shot back, “we’d have fewer dandelions and thistles growing
everywhere. Sally, you need to take your meds.” Jose began backing away and set to tying the corners of his blue tarp.
But Sally’s whip made his hands jump. She snapped it repeatedly just inches
from Jennifer’s car door. Jennifer took the stairs two at a time into her house. Jose hauled the
bundle of leaves onto his truck and picked up the silenced leaf-blower. With
an expert snap of her wrist, Sally captured the leaf-blower and wrested it
from Jose’s grasp. In desperation, he held onto his tool, slipped on the lawn,
yanked the starter chord and pressed the trigger. The leaf blower shot a hail
of leaves at Sally. She reared back to strike once more when Jennifer emerged
with a rifle and fired into the air with a deafening crack. Everyone froze. Jose
released the trigger on his leaf blower and the sound died as debris fluttered
from the tree. A squawking gaggle of crows shot up from the cedar tree across
the street and darkened the sky. A rain of dry cedar chips and fir needles
exploded earthward. Doors along Locust Street opened warily and a police cruiser siren
whooped a block away. Sally wound the bullwhip into a neat coil and retreated
to her garage where she hung it on a peg. She strangled a tube of antibiotic
ointment onto her itching wrists. Jose scrambled to his feet. He inched away
and gently placed the leaf blower in the bed of his truck. He glanced at Jennifer
who was backing up the steps into her small yellow Victorian. She pulled the
red door closed as the first police car pulled up. Neighbors, embarrassed that
there was such a kerfuffle on their quiet street, receded behind softly shutting
doors and locking deadbolts. Jose stepped into the cab of his pickup with “Eden Gardening
Company” neatly stenciled on the driver’s door. He hoped that he would not
lose this account if the police arrested Jennifer. He hoped Lety would have his
meal prepared so he could get to the Adult School on time. “Stay right there, bud,” the police sergeant said. “Hands on the steering
wheel.” PGR 133
Vivian Quevedo
Neophyte Settlement at Mission
Santa Clara
Joan Maro
Other butchered cattle wait beneath the mud.
Elsewhere now, preserved, the Native American “cooking house”,
built offsite for its “historic interest,”
welcomes tourists.
Regard its adobe walls and teja roof.
( - used what the land provided them - )
Regard the simple hearth and kitchen, each milling stone and bowl mortar.
The era’s ceramic cooking bowls, framed and still.
Christopher Encarnacion
Knots are great when you need to
bind things together but they
get in the way when you try to
untie them but can’t
what’s most important is to realize
the tightest knots were once subject to a load.
Care must be taken especially when
using a tool as to not damage the rope.
Remember, the smaller the knot
the more time it will take
imagine getting a grip on
something only a child’s hands can
you’ll need to work some slack in
creating space where none exists
do this by pushing and pulling the sides
going in and once you see movement—it’s freed.
PGR 134
As if intact, each earthen reconstruction.
On streets beside the Mission entrance, passing windshields
flash abalone like beads lost in till.
Vivienne Orgel
How To Untie Knots
(Historians speculate: they kept with their traditional
ways despite Spanish influence).
PGR 135
Day 12 (afternoon): Grytviken,
South Georgia
We landed on the southern edge of Grytviken Whaling Station and
stepped over littered whale bones as numerous as weeds. A white picket
fence surrounding a small rectangular cemetery greeted our approach.
Inside, the bones of the dead were not scattered about. The grave of Ernest
Shackleton formed its centerpiece. In 1915, after ice in the Weddell Sea ended
Shackleton’s expedition by capturing and crushing his ship the Endurance,
he and his crew made one of the most remarkable escapes in history from
the deep-frozen clutches of Antarctica’s brutal weather. With their ship lost
and supplies drastically limited, the men used sleds and tiny boats to cross
over treacherous stretches of ice—sometimes moving from iceberg to iceberg.
When they finally reached stable ground, only Shackleton and five other
men sailed across the wildest, open ocean on the planet in what amount to a
covered rowboat with makeshift sails. He hoped that the prevailing current
might land them on South Georgia, something like facing away from a
dartboard, throwing the dart backward over the shoulder without looking,
and expecting to hit the bull’s eye. Shackleton eventually reached the far side
of South Georgia just as a hurricane hit, crossed a mountain range that was
thought to be impassable, found help, and then returned to Antarctica to save
the remainder of his stranded crew. When he died many years later, he was
buried here. This monument to him was without question well deserved.
However, where were the monuments to the hundreds of thousands of
whales that were slaughtered in South Georgia? Yes, the scattered bones were
necessary reminders. But there were no monuments to acknowledge how
badly people fucked up. Eerie pieces of abandoned metal and machinery
only admitted Grytviken was a ghost town. I read a sign that had a map of
the whaling station revealing the locations of all the derelicts: flensing plant,
blubber cookery, meat cookery, bone cookery, separator plant, meal plant,
ships, jetties, villa, office, stores, accommodations, church, petrol, workshops,
freezer plant, livestock, the Louise, power plant, and cemetery.
I imagined the smell of whale death, of blubber being boiled, of whale
meat being carved, of whale bone being pulverized, of blood flowing into the
aqua blue water and turning it purple. I imagined breathing through my mouth
not because the air was so cold but because I didn’t want to smell the foul,
dank air drenched, soaked, and saturated with oil vapor that once belonged to
the largest creatures to ever roam Earth. I wanted to spit but couldn’t produce
saliva. I want to vomit but was incapable thanks to modern medicine and the
patch behind my right ear. I imagined the sounds of machinery launching,
hooking, dragging, pulling, tugging, clanking, blowing, sliding, switching,
PGR 136
Virginia Draper
Dan Linehan
cranking, rolling, turning, rotating, ringing, spinning, revolving, cutting,
separating, extracting, sorting, chiming, slicing, dicing, mixing, churning,
pumping, grinding, tooting, burning, boiling, reducing, cooking, steaming,
and freezing.
Now all that remained was the cold, rough, and rusty metal weaponry
of massacre and greed. The whaling station itself decayed like a whale with its
blubber flensed. Its metalwork and machinery corroded with the color of old,
dried blood. I stared at a vat of some sort, the size of a furnace you might see
heating a large building. It had a gauge with the word “Titan” on the dial. It
looked like it was used to measure pressure or temperature. Impossible to tell
which one. Next to it was a small window viewport where I could see what
appeared to be the teeth of a large gear. I tried not to think what this was for.
I didn’t intend to take so many photographs at a place like this. But
PGR 137
I was really pissed off and feeling deeply wronged. So I took photographs
of harpoons, of launchers, of lances, of spears, of sickles, of gaffes, of hooks,
of barbs, of winches, of cranes, of rollers, of cable, of chains, of belts, of
compressors, of conveyors, of shovels, of scoops, of dollies, of carts, of boilers,
of incinerators, of vessels, of tanks.
As I moved on, I came upon a whale skull neatly arranged on the
ground next to a harpoon. I needed to get away from all this. I needed to
elevate. I’d reach the boundary of the whaling station soon at the base of the
mountains and just keep going.
———
I looked out over the cove to a long sandbar where Ron said a few
ships had run aground. Beyond this in the distance, I saw a snowstorm where
the snow fell like rain. The wind blew the snow in a perfect diagonal from
the clouds to the water. We had just come from that direction. Climbing
higher, I reached a second cairn. Like I did at the first, I added a rock of my
own. Sandstone formed much of South Georgia. I had searched for harpoonshaped stones to fit into the cairns like keystones or the missing pieces of
three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. Not too far off, I reached the third cairn.
Each one had been noticeably smaller than the last. Now I struggled to find a
harpoon-shaped rock but had the view I’d been waiting for. I saw my ship and
the whaling station from a height that Shackleton himself would be proud of.
Soon I’d return to that small leaf floating in the puddle-sized harbor.
My promise to myself was to study global warming first hand. But
now I had a harpoon jabbed into my heart. No matter how high I climbed,
I could not escape that ache. No matter how many rock harpoon tips I left
behind, I still could not yank out the one inside me. What did climate change
and whaling have in common? Everything.
There were so many large storage tanks for the whale oil. I could never
climb high enough for them to become specks and disappear. And of course,
there was the church sanctimoniously blessing these affronts to nature with
its steeple shaped exactly as were all the rusting, metal harpoon tips scattered
over this whaling station. On my way down, I came across a group of sailors
from the Edinburgh. I asked about Antarctica. But they told me that their
ship usually didn’t go that far south. They had an icebreaker named after
Shackleton that operated in those waters. The sailors said they were taking
in some shore leave. But they still carried heavy packs and steel-barreled
assault rifles. I could not escape hydraulically actuated saws and anchors and
separators and pots. I needed to do something. This whaling station operated
from 1904 to 1964. The first airplane flew only one year before it opened, and
men had been flying to space for three years already before it closed. I needed
to be alone with my thoughts for a while.
But the Zodiacs were leaving soon. I had to find a place by myself. But
where could I be alone on a ship when I had a roommate and every other
square inch seemed to have someone there?
PGR 138
———
During dinner, I was a zombie. Impossible to suppress, everyone had
emotions drained by the whaling station. We talked with uneasiness and
awkwardness because it hurt to say something, and it hurt not to say anything.
Over the years, the harbors and coves of South Georgia based 17 whaling
stations. At Grytviken alone, 175,000 whales were slaughtered. One whaler
had personally killed 6,000 whales. Nothing was days-of-yore romantic about
it, like a whaler with a hand-thrown harpoon, chasing after a whale on a small
rowboat as with Captain Ahab in Moby Dick. No, this so-called tremendous
feat was achieved by riding on the bow of a ship, motoring by engine not sail
or ore, and using a gun sight to aim explosive-tipped harpoons launched by
a cannon at targets the size of barn sides that eventually ran out of air and
surfaced to a death they were likely smart enough to have known awaited
them. What an extraordinary accomplishment to be a marksman at shooting
gigantic fish in a barrel.
Mac talked more about all the minke whales and humpbacks that
were just hunted this year. As horrendous as this whaling station was, Japan,
Norway, and Iceland had not stopped whaling even after the international
agreement to ban whaling in 1982. Japan regularly killed hundreds of whales
a year. Japan also had the audacity to claim that it was for scientific study, as
it used the latest and greatest technology to track and collect its participants,
which involuntarily gave up their lives in the name of science.
More than a hundred years ago, shotgun science was a method used
to collect specimens for study. This was exactly what it sounded like. If you
wanted to study an animal for scientific purposes, you’d load shells into your
shotgun and go blasting away. Even James Audubon, the famous birder,
painter, and naturalist, employed this method in the 1800s. But that was a
very long time ago. Humans had supposedly learned a thing or two since
then.
So, just how many whales does Japan have to kill decade after decade
to finally come up with the results of their study? Think about the cost to run
such study, traveling so far year in and year out in their massive, specially
designed specimen gathering ships. The Japanese must havehad very gracious
and very patient sources funding this science. A look at the truth revealed
that the scientific study conducted by the Japanese amounted to nothing more
than taste tests.
Somehow, year after year after year, scientific specimens, a.k.a. whale
meat, ended up in the grocery stores in Japan. Their science was absolute
bunk and a blatant sham. Scientific results should not be published on the
pages of restaurant menus.
Despair made me want to fling myself off the stern of the ship into the
icy waters below. I only hoped that my writing after this expedition would
cause many people to wish I would have taken this plunge. And if I was really
lucky, then there would be at least one person willing to come to my rescue.
PGR 139
Jumping Ship
Victor Henry
Virginia Draper
Water Lydia Bashor
drops of liquid jewels,
cool and sparkling,
traveling and flowing.
pure and clear,
rushes over me,
erases my doubts.
so vital,
yet powerful,
and violent.
it washes my eyes,
caresses my cheeks,
clears dirt and blood.
consumes me in its beauty,
and finally,
drowns me.
PGR 140
That morning at chow
rumors float like jettisoned debris.
Psycho Man leaped over the railing
sometime after midnight
on the way to the ship’s brig,
handcuffs straining against
blood and bone,
plunging feet first
into the cold, black sea.
Each time one of the MPs
threw him a life preserver
he pushed it away.
For a few minutes
he was in the spotlight,
bobbing up and down
like an unsinkable cork
before being sucked into the ship’s propellers.
That afternoon while searching
in circles for the P Man,
we listen to Hanoi Hannah
on a short-wave receiver.
She knows we’re coming,
knows our troop strength,
knows the names of our officers,
predicts how many of us will die
in the coming year.
Later, like derelicts huddled
around a bonfire, we listen to
The Lakers play Philadelphia
from The Sports Arena,
Jerry and Elgin
against Hal and Wilt,
a game we understand.
PGR 141
The Boot
The Book of Rejections What could he have been thinking when those 155 mm Howitzer shells
came in on top of him? How deep did he burrow into the ground? Did he
bitch while his breath was being sucked from his lungs? Did he scream over
and over again for his artillery support to stop the death drain? Today we
are gathered in a stand-down. Men have died because a captain from Bravo
Company miscalculated his fire mission. Short rounds fell short of their target.
Like Vietnamese civilians caught in a crossfire of instantaneous death he must
have felt what it was like to “didi mau” in the face of fire. Only a few of us
have seen the boot, shattered broken bone, soft flesh, coagulated blood, stump
protruding from its casing, identifiable as a left foot. I notice the leather toe is
scuffed beyond a spit shine. I see the olive drab fabric worn through in spots,
small holes burrowing through into festering flesh. The olive drab sock, burnt
and frayed around the edges, sticks to the tissue like napalm. The boot sits in
front of me like an icon, a symbol, a prop in a one act play. I study it, touch it,
pick it up, talk to it. I knew the whole part. I give into war’s insanity, admit
this war has reduced the living and those other men, those dead men, to body
parts.
She sketches day after day
her grandfather dying. This schoolgirl—
freckle-face, red-hair, bruise-blue
dress—builds her portfolio.
Cows die, sheep die, hens die.
She draws them all, dead,
but it’s only him that she’s ever
caught in the dying. She tries not
to be glad for the slowness
with which his hands and face thin as he lies in bed from the first
ice storm to the last daffodil
and then while the larks climb
their silvery ladders of song
into the high humid heavens.
The girl continues when
he’s died leaving her at last.
She draws his closed eyes,
the finally peaceful face he’ll raise
to the sword-bearing angel
though the angel will tell him
his wife already inscribed his name
in the vellum Book of Rejections
at the Great Pearled Gate.
Victor Henry
J. Zimmerman
Vivian Quevedo
PGR 142
PGR 143
Learning to Speak Poetry
Magdalena Montagne
I loved that Joey Fernandez put his tongue in my mouth
during seventh period when we were supposed to be
studying public speaking with Mr. McCarthy.
It didn’t feel evil to skip another high school class.
Just a state of mind like cool or in or happening.
Like pulling out the chair
at the exact moment
David Rathbone went
to sit down on it.
A Mexican.
But when we were alone in his shabby room
bedcover ripped, furniture nicked
his mother at work in the school cafeteria
his father off again, who knows where,
he recited poetry to me.
Verses whole from Neruda and Lorca.
Men I didn’t care to know yet.
Men I would come to know better—exalt even.
Long after I had forgotten this boy who taught me to French kiss,
that year in high school when I became aware of my middle class life.
And first learned how lyrical the words, I love you, could be.
His tender face slightly reddening
thick glasses partially askew
when he picked himself up
from the dusty floor
where Julie and her sister Nina
had planted chewing gum
the day before.
The janitor skipping our homeroom
—animals live there—
he was overheard saying.
Later that day Joey took me to his bedroom.
Stripped me of my clothes
and my school girl manners.
I protested, but meekly.
After all, he was the one
who had carried my heavy bag
at the county fair
and spent all his hard-earned money
on cotton candy, the roller coaster and a stuffed zebra.
My girlfriends tried to talk me out of it.
He was fast they said.
A year older.
PGR 144
Diane Patrucuola
PGR 145
Gravity
Sheila Siegel
Rumi suggests we welcome
whatever comes, be it sorrow,
malice, joy or depression, all
emotions fostering learning.
Open the door and invite all in.
Answer every ringing phone with a
smile in your voice, laugh at
both the mundane and the serious,
embrace the lizard-like way
awareness slips in the cottage door.
But what do we learn from repetitive
gusts of bad news with every bulletin?
Just this morning three calls back to back,
a dear friend hospitalized, dying,
another in tears, a third with a
story of surgery gone wrong,
voices morose, unsure, each at
smoky gray crossroads.
I do not grow from the onslaught.
I am worn down by gravity.
I’d be grateful to be a guest on a
space station where I could float freely,
watch the blue and white
swirling earth rush by,
look out into the infinite universe
all the way to Pluto and beyond,
to discover an unassailed perspective that eludes me.
PGR 146
Clarisa Chisum
PGR 147
Lisa Simon
Marilyn really hurt me.
The sequins and the way one bead
dripped off each nipple in Some Like It Hot.
Her skin was barely sheathed with sheer.
And my flushed face and neck
showed that I was sheer,
a first grader in a flowered nightgown,
hot and confused, bedtime milk in my cup.
Everyone saw, I was sure, my arousal,
and confusion over the air thick with longing.
Something charged came in waves
over my father, my brothers,
some force I’d never known
as we watched her sing
Happy Birthday Mr. President,
with a low breathy voice
that slid up to a girlish squeak.
Her breasts.
I wanted her breasts.
They wiggled when she breathed.
I became gangly in my limbs
and stumbled into the ottoman.
How could I understand then
why it would take a million years
for me to feel pretty again?
As preteens, my friend and I partly broke the spell
with parody, in towels after a shower,
as we dropped them in mock surprise
that James Bond or my sister’s boyfriend
walked in on us.
But Gloria Steinem saved us
as she broke her way onscreen
toward the Aqua Velva man,
shoved Joey Heatherton aside,
slapped the aftershave
on the man in the commercial
so hard the screen went black.
PGR 148
Joe Doudna
Milk in My Cup
PGR 149
Limbo
What awoke me was the sudden stop I felt inside the elevator. With no
recollection of how I ended up being here, I merely looked around while my
astonishment passed, and I tried to piece the last few moments together. The
elevator was quite comforting in the meantime; deep maroon velvet coated
the three walls around me guarded by a reflective gold hand rail. It was cold
to the touch, as if the elevator had been stationary and empty for some time.
Hovering above me was a solid mirror, with more reflective gold around the
trim, reflecting myself and the soft charcoal floor beneath my feet. On the
fourth wall were the doors leading to whatever awaited me outside of this
box, and they were probably the most aesthetically off putting things in the
entire space. They were just simple doors, nothing special about them at all;
the kind you might see in your average multi-storied department store, coated by the same velvet as the rest of the walls with no number panel at all.
Above the doors where one would normally read which floor the elevator
was passing, there was simply a half circle dial with no numbers on it whatsoever and a clock hand pointing straight up. This threw me off more than the
doors themselves as I stared up for a few moments paying no attention to the
fact that I had been waiting in a stopped elevator for far longer than usual.
What caught my attention again were the clothes I was wearing. They
were not clothes I ever remembered buying let alone having in my wardrobe
at my house. I had on a three piece suit, navy blue vest and tie with a matching jacket and a smoky off white shirt. Inside my jacket pocket was by far the
most curious of accessories: a silver pocket watch with only three numbers on
it, the one, the six, and the ten.
My curiosity remained on this piece until the doors dinged open in
front of me. On the other side awaited a cozy room with walls made of brick.
I stepped through the door into the room where the temperature was just
enough colder than room temperature to notice but not enough to raise one’s
voice about. Oddly enough there was a healthy fire burning on one side of the
room that didn’t seem to affect the temperature at all. Across the room from
the fireplace was a modest bookshelf that was completely full of books both
large and small, and all of them looked to have been read more than once although some were dustier than others. The room had no windows and only
one other doorway across from the one I had just entered. Across from the
bookcase was a most curious and unnerving painting, The Judgement of Cambyses by that of Gerard David. It depicted a sorrowful man being flayed alive
in a medieval town square while all of his peers and townsfolk looked on in
sorrow. The longer I looked, the more my hair on my arms and neck slowly
rose to an erected stature, and the tingling of the cold skin below them heightened the anxiety that was filling the room.
PGR 150
KOAK
Josh Fox
Moments later the other door in the room opened. A man seemed quite
surprised to see me. He was decorated in a simple tuxedo with an old fashioned glass in one hand with a cigar between his fingers; his other hand was
still outstretched from opening the door. His pale face contrasted his matte
black polished hair on top of his head, perfectly fashioned into an asymmetrical coif that gave him the immediate authority in the room. He looked as
confused as I did, and neither of us seemed to really want to greet each other.
I took the first leap.
“Hello.” Flat and unwelcoming; hardly any way to begin a conversation in-well wherever I was.
“Do you have an appointment?” he responded. His tone was equally
unwelcoming although his possessed much more authority.
“Well I—I came through the elevator.”
He wasted no time. “I can see that, but that wasn’t my question.”
I still remained confused, and I could feel my adrenaline rising with
each exchange of conversation. “I wasn’t quite sure you needed an appointment.”
He paused. He raised his wrist to his face and lowered it again, “I’m
still on my lunch. What time do you have?”
“Oh I think my watch is broken.”
“Well what does it say?” he responded pressingly.
Not trying to initiate any unintentional arguments, I followed his instructions and opened the pocket watch I found in the jacket pocket. Sure
enough, it remained more than half blank. I raised it up and showed him from
across the room. “See? It’s not even filled out all the way.”
He wasn’t fooled. “Let me see it,” he said as he begrudgingly waved
me over to his side of the room. I followed his instructions as I walked probably the longest twelve feet of my life. He inspected the watch closely. “No,
look here. See how the hand is on the ten? You’ve got ten minutes until your
appointment.”
This discovery, profound as it was, still did not answer any of my questions. Where am I? Who are you? Appointment for what? What the hell is go
PGR 151
Joe Doudna
PGR 152
ing on in that painting over there? How did I get here? I had no idea where to
start. This guy had to have at least some information for me, but his patience
seemed to be dwindling as I had obviously interrupted some very personal
and apparently very infrequent free time of his. I figured I only had a shot at
one question before he absolutely lost all understanding for me at all. It was
just a matter of what information I wanted first. My brain started working
faster than ever as I cycled through various scenarios of all the potential information I could possess, but my instincts had fallen short once again: “What
should I do?”
On the list of questions to ask in a situation like this, this question was
substantially far down on the list, residing somewhere between “Whose suit
are you wearing?” and “May I have whatever you’re drinking?” It provided
me with no pertinent information at all and seemed to get me nowhere. Actually it got me exactly where I didn’t want to be: right where I was.
“Take a seat,” he responded to my surprise. “Care for a drink?”
I suppose the latter of the questions wasn’t so bad after all. I carefully
accepted his proposal as I was not sure which kind of beverage he was referring to. Sure enough, he walked over to a table by the bookcase and opened
up one of the drawers and pulled out some rye, bitters, sugar, a few cherries,
an orange, and some ice. I allowed the question of where exactly he was procuring all of these ingredients from to simply slip from my mind, grouping it
with the aforementioned potential questions. While he was constructing his
cocktails he broke the awkward silence that arose.
“I suppose we can shorten the appointment a little bit if you want and
get a few things out of the way. What was your name?”
I was still curious as to what appointment he was referring to, but nevertheless gave him my name.
“Hm….Melvin McCoy. Let me think…Oh that’s right! The pharmacist!” He was now finished and brought the drinks back to the fireplace. He
took a seat across from me and handed me a glass. “Now what exactly does
that entail?”
I abruptly shifted the course of the conversation. “How did you know
that?”
“Well I read the file before you came in obviously. Now what exactly
does a pharmacist do? I mean besides the obvious of course: read the prescription and find the right bottle on a shelf of a thousand different bottles. But
what does he really do?”
I ignored the latter half of his question. “What file?”
He was as nondescript as ever. “Your file! Now can you answer my
question? I’m still on my break here!”
He wasn’t going to let up; he had the upper hand, so I gave in. “I research
the medications that are given me and relate my data to the physicians and
patients to decide who to give what and how much. Now what the hell am I
doing here?”
PGR 153
He was slightly taken aback by my response and the fear that I was
feeling earlier returned to me as soon as the silence had fallen over the room.
My mind immediately returned to the painting on the wall as I could only
imagine the pain and fear that the poor man on the flaying table felt. His
confusion returned. “You really don’t know why you’re here? I mean, that’s
pretty obvious, but I rarely get anyone with no recollection of their way over
here. To put it simply, I’m the guy who decides which direction you leave in
that elevator. Your case is certainly interesting, and I most definitely don’t get
very many pharmacists down here.”
I thought for a moment and processed the information he just told me.
The weight on my entire body seemed to be slowly crushing me from the
inside out as I sank into my chair. “So it’s true then? I’m really...”
“Well now hold your horses. We’re not quite there yet. That’s what we
need to decide.” I was still trying to piece it all together. “So, what exactly do you need
from me?”
He thought again, looked me up and down and took a sip of his old
fashioned. He lit his cigar as he seemed to be pondering the thought once
again. As he dragged on his cigar, he let out a deep exhale with a cloud of
smoke that carried the weight of all of his authority throughout the room as if
to remind me whose house I was in. He looked at his watch once again, “Well
if we’re gonna’ start, we may as well start already.”
No matter how many questions I could manage to ask, I would always
be left with more questions than answers. He again walked over to the magical
drawers of infinite usage and contents and pulled out a typewriter. It was
old but polished, and its shiny black coating glimmered in the warm yellow
overhead lighting. It looked brand new but was easily from the 1940’s. He
brought it over to the table by the fireplace and began typing on it. I merely
waited patiently while he focused on his typing without any paper to write
on.
Finally he stopped and put his focus back onto me. “Alright, now for
me to do my job as accurately as possible, I’m going to need absolute and total
honesty. Do you understand?”
I didn’t really understand, but of course I agreed. I didn’t know what
to expect next, a therapy session or the Spanish Inquisition.
“How long have you held your position?”
I counted briefly. “Three years.” It has felt like an eternity.
“Are you happy with it?”
Total honesty. “Not unhappy.” This was basically a lie, and he didn’t
buy it for a second.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had asked, but if that’s your answer then
that’s your answer.”
And without giving me a moment to reconsider my thoughts his fingers
began plunking away on the old machine. A stern look of disappointment
PGR 154
covered his face as the clinks and clanks were the only sounds to fill the room.
I did my best to find a convenient spot to interrupt him, but my mind kept
diverting me to the painting. This time, I could only imagine myself not as the
man on the table, but as one of his peers looking on, watching my neighbor
get his skin peeled from his flesh and wondering if I’d be the next in line.
The ding from the typewriter that signaled the end of a line brought
me back to the situation at hand. He had stopped typing. He was only staring
at the empty space where the paper would normally be coming out of as if
trying to decipher some information. “How did you say you died again?”
“I can’t remember.” This was the truth.
“Well it says here you were murdered.”
“Murdered?” As sorrowful as it sounded, this was my glimmer of hope.
This was my sure shot into the better half of whatever the afterlife entailed.
My nerves became relaxed, and for a split moment I envisioned myself leaving
here and walking out a free soul.
“Yes, by a woman named Myrtle Johnson.” He stopped and looked
up at me square in the pupils, his glistening grey-blue irises piercing right
through whatever lie I could have prepared for his next question: “Ring any
bells?”
Of course it did. Myrtle Johnson, wife of the late George Johnson,
neighbors for the better part of six years, a regular patient at the pharmacy.
“Yeah sure, I know her.” That glimmer of hope was now slowly being eclipsed
by the shadow of despair.
“Do you have something to tell me, Melvin? If you do, I insist you
don’t hide it from me. After all, I’ll find out eventually…” He gestured to the
typewriter ominously.
“George Johnson was a regular of mine. A tube of 600mg Ibuprofen
capsules once a week for his back aches. I knew George for a long time, and I
knew when things weren’t going well. I could see it in his face, his stature, the
way he walked, talked. He wore his life on his sleeve. Then one day, he said
the pills weren’t strong enough anymore. I asked him what was still hurting
and he just said life. When he asked for something stronger, I couldn’t say
no. It was just too hard to see him live his life like that.” Telling the story only
made it worse, a split second decision I never thought I’d have to revisit; I was
just helping a friend in need. The man stared at me through his darkening
eyes and I felt my hand clench into a fist just looking at him.
“You killed him,” he said without a trace of emotion anywhere in that
statement.
“I saved him! He wanted an escape and I gave it to him!” I had once
again become the man on the table, and I could see the knife in his inside
pocket through his jacket.
“He asked for the wrong drugs, and you gave it to him knowing the
impending results. There’s a name for that, Melvin. It’s called murder.”
“Then what would you have done? Huh? It’s easy when you’re the one
PGR 155
holding the gavel, but give yourself a knife or a gun and it’s a lot harder to
look like a hero, pal.”
“You don’t get to hold a gavel until you know what to do with a knife!
Keep up that kind of talk and I’ll put you on the fast track!”
It took every nerve, every ounce of strength I had in me, to unclench
my hand and let out a deep exhale. I was still in his court, and I had to play by
his rules. He slowly took a big gulp of his old fashioned and typed a few more
sentences into his typewriter. “So what happens now?” I asked.
He looked at me again and his eyes were now almost completely grey.
“Well, what you’ve told me certainly changes things. But the good news is
that you’re still here, which means you’re not completely out of the race yet.
I’ve certainly never catered to someone in your position before either, which
makes it difficult for me to evaluate.”
“Difficult? I was murdered! Someone took my life in cold blood!”
“You are the murderer, Melvin!”
“Is that what would make it easier for you! Fine! I murdered George
Johnson! You happy? I murdered George Johnson to save himself from his
own life! And I would love to see what you would do in my same position!”
A silence fell over the room as if a tornado had just passed through and
the debris was settling. I began to see his knife in his coat pocket again as he
looked at me and finished off his drink. “Is that a confession, Melvin?”
“Call it what you want. I’ve given you my piece, and that’s all I’ve got.
I can’t talk about this anymore.”
He let out a huff and began to pack up the typewriter. This was the
most disturbing silence of all; he didn’t make a single sound as he filed all
of his materials back into the mysterious drawers from which they came. I
was still powerless, but I knew that I had done the right thing. And I finally
began to wonder what the poor man on the table had done to deserve his
fate. It couldn’t be something as simple as I’d have done. Could it? I broke the
silence: “Where are you going?”
“Well, if you have nothing to say, then my job is finished.”
“Then where am I going?”
“Honestly, I can’t say for sure. But the elevator should be here soon
enough. Goodbye, Mr. McCoy.” He exited through the door he came and
didn’t look back.
This was the worst silence of all. I looked towards the painting again
in search of some form of familiarity and found that the table was now empty
and soaked in blood that dripped off of it. I let my confusion slip me into a
brief dream as I watched the scene of the town square unfold: people crying,
some cheering, and a blood soaked sheet with a body inside being carried off
by two knights. Judgment had come, and someone in the crowd was next in
line.
What awoke me was the sound of the elevator doors opening. PGR 156
Thieves’ Refuge
La’akea Sky Smith
In times before I took the
dagger from my side
cut my bindings
before I wiped the blood from m’eyes
brandishing my strength at those
who bound me…
In moments of utter frailty—
fucked up, sucked up
strung out at your feet
holding only to the thread unravelling
of your clothing—
I took refuge in your beggars’ bowl
knowing you would always feed me.
In times before when I
seduced my own death
sedimented myself to the wet breath
of life’s only true King.
When I became a stalactite
like an eye tooth above the throned cave
bashed in, smashed in, broken brained
…in the palm of your hand
crying and curling up, holding only
your little finger—
I took refuge in your Majesty’s gaze
knowing you would always see me
Before I shook myself out of
the clutches of hate
When I was the mistress of death
and, for others, death’s bait
when my body was a tool—
smashing pearls and
throwing open gates
although bearing the world’s weight
I broke my demons’ chain
holding only to a knot in your net
with my broken hook of faith—
I took refuge in your grace
knowing I always came from you
only sometimes am I me.
La’akea Sky Smith
was an outstanding student at
Cabrillo College
whose poems were
often
published
in PGR. He died
in a tragic motorcycle accident just
before he was to
start at the University of California,
Berkeley. He will
be missed.
PGR 157
A Story of Bubbles and Balloons
Marina Romani
The white one was her favorite—
she liked the way it picked up light
and the colors of pretty things.
It was to her a lucent moon
with its own world of magic inside.
All balloons were magic back then—
yellow, sunshine on a string
green, twinkle winks of summer leaves
blue, a kiss of sky, the Virgin’s veil
red, apples laugh, a dancing clown!
If a balloon man was in the street
her Papa knew she’d stand rooted
until offered a new globule of magic.
On the way home it would hover over her,
as she, skipping light, held tight the string.
Later, it would drift about her room
while she dreamed enchanted forests,
floating fairies, rainbows, and moonglow,
until, Pop!—it was all over.
The white one she so loved held out the longest,
but one day it popped too.
Such were her early lessons of impermanence.
The years passed, bringing new joys, new losses,
and balloons became just a childhood memory.
Until he appeared, and that habitual pronoun
I changed to we, and my changed to our.
There was something golden about that
and about the time they were spending together,
which she sensed from the start was ephemeral,
and she remembered the balloons.
He would have none of that balloon-pop talk
—No, no, don’t you worry, he laughed,
this bubble won’t pop! It can’t! It won’t!
She willed herself to believe with him.
PGR
158
They blew up their own
lambent bubble and filled it
with walks in green hills
sparkles of waterfall
a rippling river
a boat rocking on water
gold leaves of autumn
intimations of snow.
They added in
gentle talk
smiles
laughter
soft touches
their kisses
their passion.
It held all,
and the rest of the world was left out,
for a while.
But the membrane
—didn’t they know? —
was fragile, translucent.
Soon enough,
the green-eyed intruder rode in
flapping dark sinister wings
—jealousy, yes, dropping its cargo
of angers
rationalizations
pleadings
tears.
Stretched to capacity,
their scintillant bubble,
still marbling moonlight’s
pearly pinks and silver blues,
gave them no better shelter
than a delicate bubble of soap.
With the membrane’s small pop,
she was, and he was, left standing alone,
each holding nothing except for a tangle of string.
Vivian Quevedo
PGR 159
The House
Helene Simkin Jara
The house I saw yesterday
was the face
I saw in the mirror this morning:
faded, worn,
partially lovely but
mostly
forgotten.
I saw
the outside paint,
beige,
like endless sand.
Before,
it was a vibrant blue,
proud,
making a grand
proclamation.
The fireplace had been
excised
from the center
of the living room,
it’s absence
screaming.
As I walked through the rooms
I was allowed
to see,
I felt tentative,
intrusive,
embarrassed for them,
for what they’d
become,
like walking down
the corridor
of a nursing home,
seeing glimpses
of the lonely
and elderly
in their state of humiliating
disintegration.
Only the remodeled
kitchen,
now downstairs,
looked happy to be there.
The memories
of each room
could
barely be conjured up,
Azaz Nurcan
like looking at photos
in the obituaries,
how they looked in their twenties,
how they looked right before
their passing.
I expected
to be moved,
walking on my parents’ property,
seeing their old house.
PGR 160
KOAK
It was more like reading
a textbook,
dull,
uninviting,
an assignment that
couldn’t end
too quickly.
PGR 161
Deep Sleep
Cheryl Gettleman
One morning when I wake up
I will really be dead.
Will I notice the clock has stopped,
notice the clouds, hanging still.
Bananas will no longer ripen in the bowl;
what about the expiration date on the milk?
My dog will not look up at me when she hears me unplug
the charger from my cell phone or hears magazine pages
crunching as they slide to the floor from the end of the bed.
My mother will not call me every day to talk;
she will continue to not listen.
My husband will be shaving and not
looking for me in the reflection behind him.
Will the heart I drew on the steamy mirror still be there?
Andy O. F.
Tomorrow I will be old
And that day I’ll tell myself
Yesterday I was young.
Alissa Goldring
PGR 162
I hope so, to know that morning
would be a gift.
The day before I would stay late in bed
hugging, loving, inhaling his scent.
During the daily awaited phone call
I would say, “I love you” first and
not wait until the end of the conversation.
I would call each friend just to hear
their voice one more time
and all this time my dog would be
at my side frantic,
noticing the sky becoming still.
PGR 163
Her House
Debra Spencer
At first it was cluttered but she could
find the scissors when she needed them,
knew where her checkbook was.
She laughed sometimes. She wasn’t always angry.
between her bed and the wall.
This is the heart of strife
in the house of strife.
Maybe she’ll forgive us.
Every morning
we start over.
After our father died the clutter
got worse. Bargains swamped the garage.
Useless gadgets collected in the kitchen
until it was hard to find a knife.
“There’s too much stuff in here,” she’d say,
when she could still see. “It’s choking the house.”
Now that she’s gone blind the house
has become devious, chameleon.
Square stones rise up as she lifts her foot,
severed heads appear on the floor in front of her.
“There’s nothing there,” we tell her.
“I don’t believe you,” she says. At dinner she complains, “I don’t see why
we all have to sit in this tiny room,
when we have that other room, the big one,
just sitting there empty.” We ask, “What big room?”
“You know. You know, but you won’t use it.”
She claims she sleeps in a different bed every night.
It’s the same bed, her only bed, we tell her,
but she won’t believe it. She knows she’s right.
She could find the bathroom by herself, she says,
if only she slept in the same bed, if she wasn’t
locked in a cage in the garage, where it’s cold
and she’s left for hours with nothing to eat.
“I’ll make you leave. It’s my house.”
She sits on the edge of her bed for hours
and refuses to lie down. Her need to be right
is more real than the bed beneath her,
than the wall she bumps into, than the erratic
floor with its severed heads. The house
contracts until we are all squeezed
PGR 164
KOAK
PGR 165
The Body Fails Us! How We Endure
First your mind, then your body. Bit by bit, painfully gradually, faculty
by faculty lost forever. I watched as everything faded until you were a mere
shell of your body, limited to laying in bed, being spoon-fed, washed and
changed by a husband who adored you until the very end.
I remember not long ago, you sang, “Da-da-doo-da-da,” with a smile
on your face, playing a creepy crawly finger game with my three year old son,
your grandson. He laughed, delighted in it, loving it. Loving you. We all do.
That’s why, three weeks ago, we decided to let you go. It was your
request, before the disease hit, back when you worked at the old folks home,
feeding people who no longer wanted to be fed. “If I ever get to a point where
I can’t feed myself, don’t feed me,” you told us emphatically. We did feed you,
for a long time, until we faced the fact that you weren’t going to get any better.
You had already lost most muscle tone, were constantly curled up in
a fetal position. Retraction, the hospice visitors called it. Battling ongoing
seeping wounds—bedsores, fever sores, not-getting-better sores.
For three painful weeks, we took turns sitting vigil with you, holding
hands, rubbing your head, reading, talking to you. I told you how much I love
you, how you gave me the greatest gift of all—life. I hope you heard. I hope
you understood.
They started chopping the towering eucalyptus trees in the green space
surrounding your back yard, making way for development. You sank deeper
and deeper towards death.
“She’s going down with the trees,” my sister said.
Your husband leaked tears day in and out, falling into pieces and
grabbing on for an anchor as he washed your hair, your body. Some days he
felt too guilty to eat, wanted to join you in your fast.
As you faded into dreamland, a skeleton emerged, a husk that once
housed your luminous warmth. The displaced birds crowded your back yard
fence. A hawk visited one day, cawing and cawing for home.
Your cousin went on a shamanic journey and found you. “Get me out
of here,” you demanded of her.
Yesterday you went.
Today we bathed you, anointed you in oils, and covered you with rose
petals. We stood in a circle around the vacuum of your body and wept.
“Mommy, mommy,” I want to curl into a ball, and scream. Devastation
of the severance of that primal bond. The first connection to this world—gone.
You are in a better place now. That is a cliché for a reason, because it’s
true. Your
suffering is over. No more debilitated mind, no more failing body. Your spirit
was displaced, flying in circles while your body anguished. Now you are
home, in a place that can never be chopped down.
There is no tree. There is no nest. There is no body. There is no you.
Yet you are all around us.
Anabelle stands graveside,
Dressed in white.
She wears high socks that cut her thin legs
At the thighs
And a lacy white dress
Designed for warmer weather.
In her hair she sports
An oversized cotton flower,
Also white,
And her lipstick is pink.
She is the bride at her baby’s funeral
Unwed as she is,
And she stands out in a bouquet of black.
Her mother weeps as the service proceeds,
Can’t stop mourning the loss of her first grandchild.
Anabelle’s face is carved,
Ancestral,
But she’s got those deer eyes
And in her 20-year-old mind
She knows she ought to be crying
But she can’t.
She feels the spotlight,
Doesn’t know what she is doing there,
Forgets for a moment,
She is still leaking milk.
Leilani Jefferies
PGR 166
Louise Berliner
Azaz Nurcan
PGR 167
That Poet
Joan Maro
KOAK
PGR 168
I hate being that poet
writing about sadness
and asking for pity.
Who speaks of foggy days with no light,
endless winters,
barren,
devoid of life.
But I feel like that today.
My dreams are haunted,
by dark shadows,
none have identities
or faces with smiles,
they all stay in the darkness
with no glimpse of morning sun
to shrink shadows back into my subconscious.
And upon the shore of my waking,
I see only cold feet on hardwood floors,
slippers no where to be found
and a pool of spent emotion
where my dreams left me
on my pillowcase.
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
my alarm clock goes off,
yet I am awake,
awoken too early from the darkness
of my dreams,
confronted by the darkness of my waking
and seeing my pen,
I begin to write,
about my pity and dark dreams,
the dark hours when I am awake
before my alarm,
and I don’t care that I am writing a pitiful poem,
that my sadness is leaking out onto the page,
crying in the form of ink splattered trails of words.
I don’t care that comparing depression to shadows
is a cliché,
because today I am sad.
I am a poet.
And I am sad.
So I write.
PGR 169
Poems Are Rebellious Things
Roland Ruby
Poems are rebellious things.
Like today.
I was writing about my father,
and the poem decided to become my mother
over my objections.
Last week I was writing about the steamy aroma
rising
in lazy silence from my cup of coffee,
and in my cup,
the dizzy swirl of cream,
transforming the initial black & porcelain white of it,
into the spreading caramel color that became of it.
A nice poem, a metaphor maybe
for relationships (the great puzzle in my life).
But in the end…
the verse became instead about the passage of time,
and an old dog snoozing under the counter.
My favorite poem
about the terrifying rise & plunge
of the earth’s mountainous crust,
piercing the cobalt sky in its toothy growl,
casting its long shadow of disdain
for my precarious mortality
as I clung to the edge, gravity tugging at my feet,
started out
a poem about the gentle calm of the ocean’s roll,
a pastel expanse of green filling the distance,
brushing the horizon and the blue sky
like silks hanging on the line in the late morning breeze.
PGR 170
Prayer to the Republicans,
from a Disciple
Ken Weisner
Kneel to recite.
Thanks be to thee, republicans, in this dangerous time,
for saving us from our own inclinations,
and from government, which, like an estrogen, siphons off our manliness;
from taxes, for in taxes we are beholden and abased;
from entitlement, for in entitlement we lose leverage over our potency;
from humanities and arts, for they embolden the weak.
And critical thinking? Beware what a great drain is reason on our sovereignty.
Please protect our corporations, lift up our CEOs and short-term gains,
elevate to the clouds the manliness of private jets and yachts,
the limousines and billionaires, for only therein, will we be globally virile.
You who shepherd us through the night of our own ordinariness,
save us—this day and always holy-sanctified through the magnanimity
of your trickle down—from our restlessness,
our guitar playing, our disaffection & despair,
our poor planning and our camping out,
our overall lack of securities and heritable estates;
for blessed are the oligarchs, they shall divide the earth,
and blessed the financiers, for it is they who shall determine the value among us.
And blessed are the capitalists, for they shall create jobs and advance our glory,
and the advertisers—for only through them may we know what we feel, and what is true.
For those of us who have been underemployed, huddled in rentals
and underwater homes—deign to save us from ourselves, and from
foreigners. Use on our behalf your private armies
and offshore holdings, your mercenaries, havens and loopholes.
Slash our budgets for our own sake.
For otherwise we, who are prone to sin, will surely fall prey
to temptation. Teach us to hold instead to our bootstraps, protect us
from idleness, as from heathens, socialists, feminists, women in general, Mexicans,
voter registration, separation of church and state, Planned Parenthood,
Obamacare, and the French. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
PGR 171
The Prisoner
Stan Rushworth
KOAK
PGR 172
It was in 1964, when Vietnam was heating up, on a sixty-nine mile long
island in the East China Sea, on a white-hot morning. I had been assigned to
take a man up to the northern end of the island for court martial. I didn’t know
his crime, but “Top” told me he faced ten years in prison, so I knew it was bad.
The top sergeant’s hard look as he gave me the assignment said a lot, because
he’d seen more than I could imagine. “Don’t let this man escape,” he said, and
he was boiling inside. The prisoner told me about the ten years again, without
saying what he’d done, as we rolled through the jungle and village roads
in the high back of an open camouflaged jeep, me with a .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol on my belt and a highly accurate match-grade M14 rifle in my
right hand. He sat on my left, steel-handcuffed hands in his lap, looking over
at me, then straight ahead, then over at me again out of a round baby-face,
short blond hair falling at an angle toward one eye. Sometimes his eyes would
look at the village streets we were passing through, or at the variegated green
jungle scrub between the villages, studying the landscape intently, hungrily.
It was steamy hot from an all-night tropical rain, and the wind from the
drive cooled my skin, evaporating the sweat under my heavy green cotton
fatigue uniform. My prisoner wore the same thing I did, but his stripes had
been torn off his sleeve, and thin black threads reached through the cloth
on his shoulder, up into the air like spider legs, bending over in the wind
frantically. I could see them out of the corner of my eye as he talked, in a slow
southern drawl.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me, I know. I can see it in your eyes,” he said. “You
don’t got the balls.” His words came out slow, soft and humble sounding, yet
cold and full of authority too, in a mix that made me know he had a mean
streak inside of him, and he had a way to see deep inside of people alongside
that streak, inside their shadows, their dark places, places of brutality and
fear. It made me watch him carefully every time we stopped at one of the
village intersections. He might jump and run for it.
Eventually, we got further and further out of the conglomeration of closeknit villages in the mid-section of the island, out to where it was more hilly
jungle, with only sporadic tiny hamlets appearing suddenly then quickly
disappearing. Heat rays rose off broad-fingered plants, leaves as wide as a
man’s arm is long, deep gray-green. Occasionally, we’d see the ocean between
the trees, a bright mottled blue and turquoise body of light to our right, as we
drove slowly north.
“You ain’t got it in ya. I can tell a man by his eyes, and you ain’t no killer. I
know it sure. If I run, you ain’t gonna kill me. You ain’t gonna shoot a man in
the back who’s runnin’ to his freedom.” It was his mantra, his form of prayer.
I thought about it, looking at the terrain, at places he could get to. I imagined
PGR 173
his legs flying up out of the jeep, running zigzags until he got to cover,
crashing through the brush into the soft green, flexible, almost slippery folds
of the jungle’s arms. All he had to do was lean back a little, throw his feet up
and over the shallow metal edge of the jeep, and he’d be on his way, with no
way for me to stop him but to shoot. But what he had to think about was that
every movement would take split seconds, and I was watching intently with
my rifle ready, so inside our collective mind, I could almost hear the gunshot
shattering the quiet day. I knew he could hear it too.
“If you run, and I don’t shoot,” I told him, “I’ll take your place. I’ll go to jail
for you. That’s what they told me. They told me to shoot if you run.” I stared
at him as firmly as I could then. I was nineteen. “I don’t want to do that,” I
said, “but I will.”
“I know you don’t want to shoot,” he smiled, “and you won’t have my
death on your soul if you let me run.” His tone was sarcastic, drawing out
“your soul,” then he looked deliberately across the landscape, finding holes
to run through with his eyes, while I sat in fear he’d run and I wouldn’t know
what to do. He was playing with me, a game involving his own survival, his
freedom, and possibly, his death at my hands.
I showed as little emotion as possible, trying to match his sarcastic smile
with one of my own, but I couldn’t find the cold humor he had, couldn’t reach
into it because it wasn’t there inside me. I didn’t have that place in me. So I
was simply scared underneath the cool. Everything that had been happening
on the island was a huge pile-up inside of me, all the killings the first week
I got there, black men hung from tall iron water towers, white men beaten
to death in their bunks with entrenching tools in the middle of the night.
Fourteen men in all died in the first week. I thought about those nights when a
small wiry white man from another barracks stood guard over us as we slept,
standing there all night long with a .45 caliber submachine gun and a grim
face, protecting us from other American soldiers, keeping those men filled
with hatred from exploding in the middle of the night to continue the killing.
I remembered the muscles in his forearms quivering, shaking as he held the
machine gun, and the sweat shining on his upper lip in the bright lights.
In the middle of this, I spent a lot of time learning how to fight, with my
hands, with guns, and with my mind, at least what was left of it in all this
insanity. It wasn’t because I wanted to, but it was a matter of survival, and
though I learned it well, it made me deeply tired, weary in the very center of
myself, somewhere inside I couldn’t pinpoint, but I knew this place in me was
essential to my life, and that it was very tired. Sometimes the weariness pulled
at me until I felt like I was going to break, snap apart in rage or some other
kind of disconnection from everything real, and I didn’t know what would
happen, but I felt it would propel me into another world or dimension, spin
me off into the night crazily.
So late one night, when the island was asleep, I left base and walked to the
port in the south. There I climbed over a chain-link fence silently, and boarded
PGR 174
Azaz Nurcan
a tramp steamer that was headed for Singapore at dawn light. I could smell
the rust of the old metal hull as I stood on the gently rising and falling deck,
imagining what my life would be like on the high seas of Asia. The ship’s
guard approached me while I was standing quietly on the bow, looking out to
sea, and once he saw I wasn’t a threat or a thief, he became friendly, asking me
if I wanted to sign on. He offered me a new identity, a passport, a new name,
a life of “adventure” on the seas of the Orient, but it was a life I could never
leave, if I chose it. It was a one-way decision, in that moment. If I ran from
the Army, I’d be a deserter, forever on the run, free in one way, but trapped
in another. I’d have to be someone else for the rest of my life. I thought of my
father’s honor, and my grandfather’s, of my mother and grandmother, and
their pride, and family took on new meaning. I remembered that as a Cherokee
man, America was ultimately mine, my home no matter what. I thanked the
sailor for the offer, and chose not to run, but to do my time and start all over
again, if I made it through, if I lived. I wanted to survive at almost any cost, so
I climbed off the boat just before morning light began to emerge, and snaked
back over the chain-link fence. By the time I reached the road, everything was
growing faintly silver in the first hints of day.
“What you thinking on, soldier?” the prisoner broke into my thoughts, again
with his half smile and sharp tone, a bitter voice coming out of his young face.
“Looking at your whole life, are you? Thinking you can’t kill a white man, are
you? It’s different than these gooks, ain’t it now?”
PGR 175
His words hardened me suddenly, listening to the ugliness of his attitude
growing clearer with his words. He didn’t see I was Native, or he wouldn’t
have said that, or if he would’ve said it anyway, it’d have that conqueror’s
spin I’d grown used to hearing toward my darker-skinned brothers. I looked
hard at him, and I could see the darkness of his being forming in front of me,
alongside his innocent, boyish face. I was looking at a mask, one side smiling,
the other an evil grimace. With that, my inborn compassion began to fade, to
remove itself, lessen, and the further we rode the more he goaded me. But no
matter how bad he became to me, some key connection did not completely
disappear, and I found that strange.
The prisoner’s situation was like my own, both of us trapped where neither
of us could live as who we were, for completely opposite reasons. I felt this
eating at us, a mutual desperation. And, I desperately needed him to make
the right decision, or we would be thrust together into a lifelong bond. We’d
be the killer and the killed, if I shot him, and I’d have to live with his blood on
my hands, or we’d be the betrayer and the betrayed, if he ran and I couldn’t
shoot, ending up in prison myself. He would have betrayed my life, and I
would have betrayed my own survival instincts. Strangely, the second of
these alternatives seemed preferable, and I struggled with this. My suffering
because of his choice would be both true and counter to my very being. I
valued my freedom, but I did not want to kill him to keep it. And yet?
It was more than an hour’s drive to the northern camp, and we alternately
spoke and rode in silence, but it was always the same conversation whether
spoken or unspoken, of whether I would shoot or he would run, whether
I had the guts to kill him, or he the coldness to throw me into prison in his
stead. I told him he had to stand to his crime, and he laughed. There was no
question about his running if he thought he could get away with it. He would
run, and I knew it.
“I got chosen for this job,” I said after a long section of quiet, “because I’m
one of the top shooters on this island. I don’t miss, and there are lots of rounds
in this rifle, plenty of chances to get you.” I smiled. “I can put ten rounds
inside a twelve inch circle at two hundred yards, rapid fire,” I said, giving him
numbers to think about and picture. He knew what those numbers meant.
He stared then, trying to read me, scorning me in his surety that I couldn’t
or wouldn’t do it, that I didn’t have “the balls,” trying to break me with his
scorn, but he listened anyway, finally suspecting that he might not really
know me enough to bet his life on it, that somewhere inside of me I might just
say “Fuck this,” and aim and fire, ripping him open. I was young, and as the
saying goes, “One should never underestimate the violence in a nineteen year
old American soldier.” He had no guarantee, and I wanted him to know that.
I wanted him to hear the unknown qualities in me, those voices, deep inside
his own desire to live. I wanted him to see and feel my wildness, my insanity.
I wanted it to tug at him like a crazed beast inside his own meanness, an echo
of his own mania. I wanted it to snarl inside of him and plant a seed of doubt
PGR 176
that would grow and grow, the further we got into the jungle.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I told him, “so I’d try to hit your legs to stop
you. But I might miss. I don’t know. If it happened too fast…I might not shoot
straight, and….”
I wanted to tell him what happened to two black men in our barracks, “Willie
Mays” and his friend. The friend had been assigned by a sadistic sergeant to
guard “Willie Mays,” imprisoned for sleeping off a drunk and going AWOL,
and Willie had run. The friend fired a wildly-aimed warning shot out of fear,
and in a bizarre twist of ill wind, it hit Willie in the groin. He bled to death on
the black asphalt outside the barracks, near a low palm tree, while his friend
ran through the front door into the mess hall, crying out hysterically, “I shot
Willie Mays. I shot Willie Mays.” His life would never be the same, and he
would see the dark blood on the street forever, even longer than all of us who
saw it every day on our way to eat, the blood that never went away no matter
how much it was scrubbed. I wanted to tell my prisoner this story, but it was
too many words to say at once with him. I couldn’t talk that much, afraid he’d
see too much of me if I spoke that long, that my voice would break, opening a
window to my heart, to the weak side, the side that couldn’t kill him. And to
keep from killing him, I had to make him believe I would do it easily, to save
my own freedom. I had to put doubt into his soul, shoot him, or go to prison.
It could be simple, seen like that, and the simplicity carried us for miles.
“You ain’t no freer than me, and you know it,” he told me as we finally
approached the Marine base in the distance, a gathering of low Quonset huts
the color of faded sand, baking in the heat of a clearing just above a blue half-
Sydni Indman
PGR 177
moon bay. The jeep slowed, crunching its way over the long coral entrance
road, a narrow yellowish line with thick tangled jungle on both sides, the
edges burned flat by Agent Orange. It finally fanned out into the clearing,
where there were a few vehicles parked, camouflage-colored dots against
the pale coral. I tensed because I knew he had ideal cover for escaping here,
despite the proximity to the base. It was small and isolated, and it was his last
opportunity. There was a huge canyon to one side, and he could disappear
into it and make his way out through the northern jungle. On the open road,
we’d gone too fast for him to jump, most of the way, so we’d had time to talk
and listen, reflect, and dance around testing each other. But just before the
camp, it all came to a head. It was now or never for him.
“Don’t run. I don’t want you to run,” I said very quickly, surprising even
myself, looking directly into his eyes, gripping my rifle, ready to aim and fire,
but still trying to be easy about it, tough, as though it wouldn’t matter if he did,
that I might even enjoy shooting him. I could smell the gun oil from the rifle
in the heat, and I could feel the spot in me where his life didn’t really matter,
a cold place of power, and I could feel the temptation to stop and inhabit that
place, to inhabit that view of living and dying, and of some men’s job in this
world, to fight and die on orders, for some principle or political reason, or for
something incomprehensible, or for someone else’s sense of honor, or for just
plain greed. I let the coldness rise to the surface of my being, and though it
chilled me, it had an excitement to it too, like standing on the edge of a cliff,
ready to leap. It was living in the adrenaline rush of playing God.
The prisoner wasn’t smiling anymore, but he had a readiness about him,
his pale hands gripping closely together, then opening, flexing, then coming
together again, but he stayed cool, looking at me even while he scanned the
surrounding jungle, the long single road into the camp, the distant trails going
off to surrounding tents and Quonset huts, the sparkling blue curved bay just
down the slope. And he didn’t run.
We came to a stop outside one of the beige aluminum buildings, and
the driver went inside to announce our arrival. He reappeared quickly, long
enough to mumble that it would be a short wait, then he shuffled into the
air-conditioned building, its generator puffing away from somewhere behind
it. The sun beat down on us in the back of the jeep, and a very faint breeze
brought sharp low-tide smells upslope, while the water sparkled out before
us into an infinite blue horizon as bright as the sun.
Time stood still and became a huge opening, surrounding us in its arms and
its power. We stared at each other, our knees almost touching, nervously. The
camp was silent in the midday heat, everyone inside at this time of day if they
could be, even the scavenging dogs from the nearby hamlet silent and hidden
in the shade, curled up beneath swarms of slowly circling flies.
The prisoner stared at me, and I could feel the hot sun on my shoulders,
the heavy green cotton soaking it in, challenging my ability to take the heat.
My head was light, precarious, and I was dizzy. I wanted to take a deep
PGR 178
breath, but couldn’t, couldn’t show anything but calm and a quiet insistence
that the man not run, even now, where it would be suicide, something else
to consider. I sat in coldness. Everything had been said, and the silence, heat,
and dispassionate cool were the only things left between us. And time. And
our staring, hiding eyes.
It was this way for longer than either of us could count or be aware of. And
finally, out of what must have been some kind of twisted or strange divine
mercy, the time stretched us out so thin we couldn’t hold on anymore, and
when a pair of brown sparrow hawks sliced down across our vision, we
couldn’t hold onto the distance and the hardness, and the borders began to
melt in the intensity of the heat and our mutual helplessness, for we were both
without any power now. It was over. He saw into me, and he saw clearly that I
could not shoot him, and that I knew he was right about our lack of freedom,
and that he and I both knew I was not going to be the angel of his death that
day. Ultimately, I couldn’t hide that I was unwilling to carry my duty that far,
and he saw this. He saw into me as I listened to the bay and the light breeze.
He saw my softness, my desire for a different kind of life, beyond the cool
grim faces and the smells of the guns, and the body that knew how to fight.
And at the same time he saw this in me, I saw the other side of him as
well, a man only a few years older than me, from a vastly different American
culture than mine, where white men fought to keep men slaves, where the
Ku Klux Klan still hung men and women and burned crosses on lawns and
in secret meadows in the forests, where hatred flew hot and wild on skin
color, and where black men still had to drink water out of a separate fountain
by law, even when they were free and fighting for America, where they still
had to watch their backs for fear of dying under the spell of another man’s
hatred, and for nothing more. I didn’t know this prisoner, nor what crime
he committed, but I saw through him as we got dizzy in the heat. His shape
changed in front of me and we entered a dream together and became the
same human being or child, in the same body, and in this dream I saw all of
his life, his family, the talks around the dinner table, the fights at school, the
fear in his eyes as he grew up out of being a soft child into a hard man, a child
grown or nurtured to have a streak of meanness, a meanness that was there to
cover over the fear and shadowy corners of the world he lived in, a perverse
protection of a child’s fire for life. He had a sword of hatred in his eyes, a
sword to hide behind, a sword with a sharp shining blade. I saw this fear, and
I let it be. I let it alone because it was too vast and too old to touch.
Then the heat peeled us open still again, still another layer, where words
couldn’t find sound from our open lips, with no thoughts or understanding,
and when this happened some kind of wind moved through both our bodies
at once and pulled out all the momentum to do anything, even to see anything,
to think or perceive, like a big hand reached into both of us to hold us still, and
there was nothing left to run or shoot with, either one. There was nothing. It
reached in and pulled everything out, leaving us empty under the white sun,
PGR 179
listening, hearing the day, feeling it, feeling our lives, unable to move, openmouthed. All the smells and sounds and colors of the day and place poured
inside us, into the vast room that was left. The bay, the jungle birds, the
twining hawks, the flies, the interminable heat, the distant reef sound, the
soft chattering inside the Quonset hut and the chuffing generator behind, ran
inside us like tide-water into a hole in the coral, and we sank back into the
hard black seatbacks of the jeep and waited. It was completely over, and we
knew it. Relief and sadness washed us into a deep stillness where nothing
mattered anymore, nothing at all.
After a long while, a captain and two guards came and told us it was time,
breaking the silence, and the world came into us again in rustling uniforms
and boot sounds on the earth. The captain was uncomfortable in the sun,
squinting up to where we sat, and I felt strangely ashamed for him. I didn’t
salute him, but held my rifle in both sweating hands, the butt of it resting
on the jeep’s hot metal floorboards. He helped the prisoner to the ground by
grasping one arm roughly, then turned to me and saluted. “Good job, soldier,”
he snapped, brusque and full of authority, and I saluted back with an arm that
drifted through the air in front of me, not my own, doing only what it knew
it should.
The prisoner looked over at me when the captain turned his back, and he
held my eyes again, for the last time. He said nothing, but he nodded sharply
as his eyes spoke. “You owe me,” they said with clear bright blue purpose. I
took it, accepted it, and nodded right back at him. “You owe me too,” I stared,
and we both began a smile just before we turned away, a smile that never got
the chance to open between us. It was a smile of gratitude for where we had
arrived, and for the bullet we’d dodged together in these fields of madness.
Raven Sass
Rosie King
I out-smart crow, larger, sleeker—my tail
diamond-shaped, wing feathers thinner—
I don’t over-flap it. I soar.
I can be rowdy, but you won’t hear me caw-cawing
like those squatters on a wire—
my bass croak stops you in your tracks.
I like to play, fly upside-down,
do barrel rolls and somersaults to woo-woo
and mate for life.
That’s how we last. My kind goes back
to the Pleistocene, like you.
You find our bones,
paintings of us in caves.
My terrain’s vast—rugged, rocky peaks.
You admire us,
but save your awe for the condors.
I’ve seen you, far below on the trail.
You stop to admire the wildflowers—
lush in a rainy year—miner’s lettuce, larkspur,
shooting stars—how you bind their frail beauty to you
for your hot, hard climb up the switchbacks
while we ride the currents of cool air
and swoop as you spread your picnic.
KOAK
Sydni Indman
We’d never invade for your crumbs. Don’t need to.
We’re sharp-eyed. Plenty of creatures
scurrying around these rocks and plants
to gloss our feathers, our wings.
Flight!
We’re all about rapture.
And you, humans,
pondering us? You look inward.
What are you here for?
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PGR 181
Orders for My Book of the Dead
Catherine Segurson
I won’t need a lot of servants, just one good one. I will also like a lot of beer
and many clay goblets, so that each time I finish a beer when I’m dead I can
throw the goblet over my shoulder and hear it crash and break. This sounds
wasteful, but it won’t matter that much when I’m dead, and it will be nice not
to care about washing goblets anymore.
My servant will prepare my table and place a different cloth on my table each
time. My servant will see that my linen garments always feel clean, and that
my jewels always sparkle. I don’t know if there will be sun to shine on my
jewelry there, where I will be when I am dead. There will be some kind of
light. My servant will position me in the light at all times. It will be so easy,
being served and being dead.
I want to bring music with me. I want to hear rich flutes and soft drums.
Speaking of drums, would there be sex? Would I find passion in that place? I
will bring along a special dog. This dog will have special senses of smell. He
will be protective like a wolf, but loyal like a dog. Using his special senses,
this wolf pet of mine will seek out my mate in the life after. That way, I won’t
need to bother with the complicated game of attracting and keeping a mate.
My dog will fetch my mate for me, and guard us.
Azaz Nurcan
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PGR 183
Bios of Authors and Artists
Marcia Moreland Adams hails from the farmlands of the Sacramento Valley where
her ancestors settled in the 1880’s. She spent her childhood in a remote Sierra Nevada lumber camp and then moved to the heart of downtown Los Angeles as a young
adult. She also hails from a virtual mishmash of far out religious beliefs. With her
head is still spinning from all the cultural disconnects, she sorts things out by writing
poems and stories while enjoying all the cool summers at her home in Santa Cruz.
Alanna Alter lives in the wild suburbs of the East Bay across from San Ramon
creek. She believes in silk, twilight and the laughter of small children.
Julia Alter-Canvin: I write crazy subliminal poetic messages on my canvases under each painting and collage I make. I live my life between the electric shades of my
art studio and the manic rumble of LA’s carpool lanes, often awkwardly/beautifully
car-dancing to Taylor Swift & Maroon 5 with my kiddos. I’m in a dizzying state of
homesickness for Santa Cruz, so come say hi to me at seizethedazzle.com, where my
art and writing live.
Nurcan Azaz: I’m a photographer from Istanbul, Turkey, who enjoys being a student and discovering new things in life. Photography always has been my passion for
it’s both a bridge to attach me to life and a vehicle to express myself. My web site is
turkishpanorama.com
Davis Banta is a theater and media artist currently based in the Santa Cruz area.
The models for “Closing Time” and “Exhale” are Boris Volkov and April Bennett.
Hello! My name is Lydia Bashor, and I’m a senior attending San Lorenzo Valley
High School. My English class has been working on a unit of poetry, and I’ve truly
learned to love writing poems. I hope my passion is apparent in my work, and I hope
you enjoy what I’ve written!
Louise Berliner is a writer, fiber sculptor and toddler herbalist. She has a studio at
the Umbrella in Concord, MA, which she calls her laboratory, and prefers to think of
herself as a mad scientist. She is the author of Texas Guinan, Queen of the Night Clubs.
Brian Bielefeld is a long time resident of the Santa Cruz area. He is originally from
Wisconsin and does not at all miss the snow and cold.
Kit Birskovich kept moving west on Interstate 80: 17 years in Warren, Ohio; then St.
Mary’s College in South Bend, Indiana; then a Master’s degree in Piano Performance
from the University of Iowa, Iowa City. Married poet Ken Weisner from Oakland at
the western end of Interstate 80 thirty-one years ago; had two sons, grown now; and
though she is not inclined to feel affection for one long road, yet finds she does. Kit
has taught private piano lessons in Santa Cruz since 1988, loves to work at the potter’s
wheel with porcelain clay, and is most beloved by her garden.
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Barbara Bloom, now semi-retired from teaching English and creative writing at
Cabrillo College, grew up on a remote coastal homestead in British Columbia, Canada, and eventually came to Santa Cruz to attend UCSC and never left. Her first collection of poems, On the Water Meridian, was published by Hummingbird Press in 2007.
Marie Boucher (aka Marie Butcher) teaches writing and presentation skills at
Monterey Peninsula College and the Monterey Institute of International Studies. In
her free time, she indulges in writing poetry, hiking in the woods or along the coast
and exploring terra incognita.
Finding her voice and her feet was all Reeva Bradley needed to start to express
herself. When she found poetry in high school, she started to understand the depth
and possibility in creating pictures and evoking emotion with words. Rediscovering
dance and songwriting has given her more insight into human experience and has
enriched her growth as an artist. She helped to produce the 2011 issue of the Porter
Gulch Review, and is very happy to continue to be a part of this community.
William “Bill” Cass is a graduate from Cabrillo who is currently taking classes
at San Jose State. He writes for SomewhatNerdy.com where he writes movie, TV, and
board game reviews. He’s currently working on a novel and has a few short stories
in the works.
Emily Catalano is a local writer, filmmaker, and comedian. You can follow her on
twitter: @EmilyCatalano.
Dane Cervine’s new book is entitled How Therapists Dance, from Plain View Press
(2013), which also published his previous book The Jeweled Net of Indra. Look for
his essays at TriQuarterly, CONTRARY, and The Turning Wheel. Visit his website at:
www.DaneCervine.typepad.com
Clarisa Chisum was born in the Monterey Bay and now currently resides in Prunedale, California. She is a student at Cabrillo College. Her inspiration for her art
come from nature and Thomas Merton’s quote, “Art enables us to find ourselves and
lose ourselves at the same time.”
Margie Curcio is a wife, mother, and patent and trademark paralegal by day and
an after-hours poet, chapstick addict, and hopeless romantic, whose memories of life
and relationships are often prettier than reality. She can often be found texting lines
of poetry to herself through out the day while wishing she could find more time to
write.
Kathryn de Lancellotti has a degree in Literature with a Creative Writing Concentration from University of California Santa Cruz. Kathryn resides in a cottage on the
beach in Cayucos, California with her son, Jade, where she savors foggy mornings
and walking barefoot in the sand.
Virginia Draper lives in Santa Cruz and enjoys sharing what delights her with
paintings. photographs, and mixed media pieces. You can see her work at www.virginiadraper.com.
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Christopher Encarnacion grew up near the Hudson River in Union City, New
Jersey. He intuitively grasped poetry to express thoughts he once thought inexpressible. Expression and understanding lead to the right perception for healing. Now he
spends most of his day learning to perfect the craft of writing, teaching Jiu Jitsu, and
watching thoughts come and putting them onto paper.
Hi! My name is Josh Fox and I am a third year student here at Cabrillo. I was
born and raised in Santa Cruz, and I work for a local coffee roasting company here
as a barista/supervisor. I started writing in high school, mostly through scripts and
screenplays, and have recently branched out into short story and other fiction writing
after taking Marcy Alancraig’s class this semester.
Cheryl Gettleman is passionate about reading and writing but not arithmetic. She
lives in Santa Cruz with her husband and Airedale Terrier. Cooking, tennis, movies,
and taking photographs of spectacular sunsets from her phone fill the rest of her
waking hours.
Jeanie Greensfelder, as author of Biting the Apple, my poem “First Love,” originally
published in Porter Gulch Review, was read by Garrison Keillor on Writer’s Almanac
11/3/14. How fun is that?! Life is good playing the poetry game in San Luis Obispo.
Alissa Goldring was born Alice Berman in lower Manhattan in 1921 and knew
from an early age that she wanted to be an artist. She majored in art at Brooklyn
College. “Dreams have guided me throughout my life and are often the source of
my art work.” The Good Humor Dream: I am driving home from an important conference where I learned a lot about myself and dreams. Suddenly I realize that I am not
driving carefully, when I hear a car on my right, behind me, making musical notes
to catch my attention. it is a Good Humor Truck play it’s chimes. I realize I had not
noticed it and was almost crowding it off the road.
Sydney Gunther is either a writer or a scientist (but probably both). She has worked
as a math tutor in Cabrillo’s tutoring center, and she has been a student here for the
past three years. She was a member of the Porter Gulch Review staff in 2014. She plans
to transfer to a four-year university, where she will learn as much as possible about
everything.
Eric Hasse, born in Palo Alto, makes his home on the western side of the Connecticut River watershed region in Norwich, Vermont. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s
Disease over 15 years ago, these days, he devotes his time to the exploration of the ten
thousand things in the world of the visual arts. He still writes the occasional poem.
Victor Henry’s work has appeared in various small press magazines, anthologies,
and E-zines. Presently, he’s a Reference Librarian at Monterey Public Library. He’s a
Vietnam veteran and a member of Veterans For Peace.
Pegatha Hughes, from Rochester, N.Y. has lived, written poetry, painted and studied classical piano in Iowa City, Sarasota, Boston and NYC. She gave up 27 years of
snow and ice in Minneapolis and now enjoys the balmy weather of Scotts Valley with
her new husband of two years. She leads the New Yorker Poetry group for Lifelong
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Sydni Indman
Learners and enjoys her tuxedo
cat, Joey.
Sydni Indman is a photographer, musician, artist, and writer
from the Bay Area. You can see
her photography and digital art
website at http://www.sydniindmanimages.com.
Helene Simkin Jara amuses
herself by watching a fly on the
window as she sits precariously
on seven pillows on her kitchen
chair while editing her yet unpublished book called True Doll
Stories. She has self-published
a book called Because I Had To
which she considers one the major accomplishments in her life
next to being gluten-free.
Leilani Jefferies is a part-time
mother, part-time superhero social worker. She lives in Santa
Cruz with her husband and two
young sons. In her spare moments, she likes to…wait, she doesn’t have any! In her
make-believe spare moments, she likes to hike, read, dance, and breathe. When she’s
feeling inspired, she writes.
Dan Jeffrey is a senior at San Lorenzo Valley High School. He has a penchant for
theater, drawing, poetry, and music. And other things, of course. He finds his voice
in poetry, whether it’s funny, solemn, cynical, or anything in between.
Geneffa Popatia Jonker, a professor of English composition and World Literature
at Cabrillo College, dedicates her writing this year to her family: to her maternal
aunt, Gulshan Rajabali Ahmed, a refugee from Uganda who went on to become an
elementary school teacher in British Columbia, Canada, and to her cousin Alnoor
and his siblings, survivors and witnesses to the Rwandan genocide of 1994.
La’akea Sky Smith was born in Hawaii, but lived at a Buddhist center in the Santa
Cruz mountains, enjoyed meditating, surfing, reading, lounging and contemplating
the beautiful redwoods. He was a member of the PGR editorial board, and died in a
motorcycle accident just before he was to start as a student at Berkeley. Trisha O’Connor Kett used to be an elementary school teacher in Piedmont and
Castroville. She is now a wife, mother, gardener, cook, docent for the historic Rodgers House at the fairgrounds, community volunteer and occasional songwriter/poet.
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Rosie King is ongoingly delighted to live close to a beach and in a house where
poets like to meet, without which and whom her poems might never happen. Her
book Sweetwater, Saltwater was published by Hummingbird Press in 2007 and she has
another in the making.
Alison Koffler finds that her poems often branch forth from that strange place
where the natural and the human world intersect. She lives in the Bronx and Woodstock, NY with her husband, the poet Dayl Wise, and their dogs, Molly and Cole.
She works as an on-site teacher-consultant for the New York City Writing Project at
Lehman College.
Ferrd Lansang is an accomplished artist/engineer who enjoys all aspects and
forms of artwork. His most famous work was featured in Michael Jackson: Moon Walk
Through Time.
Barbara Leon’s poetry has appeared in publications including the Anthology of
Monterey Bay Poetry; Bathyspheric Review; Border Senses; Calyx; Consequence;
Crab Orchard Review; Cradle Songs: An Anthology of Poems about Motherhood;
Generations; Manzanita; Paterson Literary Review; and the Syracuse Cultural Workers’ Women Artists Datebook. And many, many times in Porter Gulch Review, the first
journal to think it was worth printing!
Dan Linehan is award-winning author and a freelance writer. He recently returned from a year and half in Argentina, where he wrote about wildlife and environmental issues and worked on his novel The Princess of the Bottom of the World.
This novel is based on his real-life adventures in Antarctica and the surrounding
regions. For more info visit www.dslinehan.com.
Tom McKoy lives in Santa Cruz, has most of his own teeth, and is grateful for the
guidance of true poets.
Magdalena Montagne leads poetry writing workshops for seniors in assisted living facilities in Santa Cruz, Monterey, and Santa Clara Counties and is a facilitator
for Community Poetry Circles through the Santa Cruz, Watsonville and Santa Clara
Public Libraries. She thanks her students for giving her the time and space to write
poems. For more information see her website at www.poetrycircle-magdalena.com.
Adela Najarro currently teaches at Cabrillo College as the English instructor for
the Puente Project. In 2015, Unsolicited Press will publish a full-length poetry collection, Twice Told Over, while Mouthfeel Press will publish Split Geography.
Vivienne Orgel is a Santa Cruz artist who loves capturing nature’s beauty (and
some rusty metal and urban funk) via photography as she roves the Central Coast
and beyond, enjoying oak trees, tafoni, wildflowers, sexy eucalypts, fertile fungi,
ladybirds, and banana slugs! Visit her website: www.rustandindigo.com.
Andy O. F. (Andrea Ortega) is new to literary contests. She has kept her work from
being read--afraid of the vulnerability and exposure it entails. She says: Writing a
poem is like throwing up. It’s this anxious feeling within you…that anxious feeling
that something’s got to be told. The surge of that certain moment, feeling, emotion,
experience, etc. rises up from your gut until you’ve thrown it up on paper.”
David Ishaya Osu is a Nigerian poet. David is currently exploring Japanese poetry forms, as well as polishing his debut poetry book. He is also a street photography
enthusiast.
Vered Manasse, has taught people for more than twenty years to reconnect to
their inner strength and their bodies. She assists people in gaining more self-confidence, individuality, creativity, as well as better health and well-being. She was born
in Israel, and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. Her stories aim to capture the path
of her clients, their perception of their surroundings, and the ability to transform,
and achieve their goals in life. Joan Maro graduated from UC Berkeley in 2012 with a BA in Egyptology and
Political Science. She currently works as a field archaeologist and serves as a Board
Member for Poetry Santa Cruz. She has been a poet since she could hold a pen. Her
favorite place to both write and work is in cemeteries, ancient and modern.
For artist Diane Patracuola, working with her hands began when she was just a
child growing up in Monterey where she helped her fisherman father mend his nets
and paint his boat. When she was 7, she took it to the next level and began drawing
and writing an original cartoon called, “Koottoons.” She explains, “It was about the
adventures of Kami Kaze Koot and his partner Risky Rail, eco-warriors who were
trying to save the planet one mud puddle at a time.”
S. Rain Mathis is a student at Cabrillo College. OVERKILL is her first published
work and is excited to be part of 2015’s edition of the Porter Gulch Review. Vivian Quevedo is a 19 year old daydreamer who’d rather go and sit in a coffee
shop with her sketchbook and imagination than participate in long math lectures.
She hadn’t planned on adding her own art to the PGR but with the motivation of a
classmate who’d backed her up, she was convined to recreate bold images from wonderful peices. She doesn’t regret her choice at all.
Erich McIntosh: The prompt was, “Please write one line about me in the comments” on Facebook. “It’s nontraditional guys like you that make the world a cool
place. I’m grateful to have you in my life.” “Breh, as soon as we met I knew I found
a good friend” “Better than real, doesn’t settle for stake of mediocre. Shatters numbness with words of feel. Selfless. Caring. Thought-provoking. Loud. Laughter.”
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Dan Phillips looks for inspiration to write all over the world but usually finds it
right here at home in Santa Cruz where he loves best to have his work published. His
credits include Porter Gulch Review, phren-Z Online Literary Magazine, and Catamaran Literary Reader.
PGR 189
Ramya Ramana, 19, is an author, activist, poet, writer and lover. She is the former
Youth Poet Laureate of New York City and a currently a student at St. John’s University. Ramana recently published her first collection of poems Don’t Drown Her in the
Baptism, and is currently working on her new E.P. Ramana hopes to continue writing,
performing, loving and learning what the world has to offer.
37 years and her Maine Coon cat.
She is a Physician Assistant, teacher,
skier, cancer survivor, world traveler. When she is stalled in her writing, she can be distracted by playing
games on the computer. Scrabble
anyone?
Barbara Raney was a fellow at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and has been teaching English Literature and writing for fifty years Barbara is still hoping to create the
perfect lesson plan and the perfect poem.
Roland Ruby, a former staff engineer and molecular biologist, is currently a student of the arts at Cabrillo, and a frequent coffee-shop poet who can be seen on
weekend mornings at the Ugly Mug scribbling in his worn notepad. When not in
school, Roland spends his winters working and riding at Mammoth Ski Resort, and
the summers exploring the peaks and passes of the Eastern Sierra where much of his
inspiration comes from.
Marina Romani thinks that poems are always out there, available for catching:
they float through dreams, landscape, colors, music; they pop up in things people say
or in events of the day. The trick is to recognize them and to catch them. That’s the inspiration part. Then comes the work. Marina experiences joy whenever she succeeds
in catching a poem, and she treats the work that necessarily follows as a call to avoid
the practical tasks of daily living.
Stan Rushworth: I’ve been a teacher at Cabrillo seemingly forever, with great
pleasure. I served during Vietnam, and one of these stories comes out of that time,
long in the percolating, like much from those kinds of circumstances. I grew up on
the east side of the San Joaquin valley, raised by my Cherokee grandpa old way. I’ve
got 2 books out, Sam Woods American Healing, and Going to Water: The Journal of Beginning Rain.
Galen Savidge: I am a first year electrical engineering major at UC Santa Cruz and
part time musician.
Catherine Segurson is the editor of Catamaran Literary Reader. Her work has
been published in Coastal Living Magazine, Monterey Poetry Review, Slow Trains,
Taj Mahal Review and others. She is a visual artist with an eye for adventure along
the Central Coast.
Theodore J. Shank is an English instructor at Cabrillo College and San Jose State
University. Theodore Shank is influenced by the French Symbolists, David Lynch,
The Melvins, and coffee.
I’m Sheriza. I am a book with missing pages. I let my world be filled with stranger’s eyes and words. What my shaking pen-hands written here, are my thoughts tattooed and inked for your eyes to see.
Sheila Siegel is a long time Santa Cruz resident. She lives with her husband of
PGR 190
Marie Boucher
Lisa Simon loves teaching poetry
and fiction to writers of all ages at
Cabrillo College and for NextStage
Theatre. A frequent reader at Celebration of the Muse, Lisa has an MFA
from Vermont College of Fine Arts
and a degree in English from U.C.
Berkeley. Having never forgotten the
red velvet curtain behind her solo
as Oliver’s Nancy, Lisa went on to
study theater at Middlebury College,
where she performed as Sister Rita
in The Runner Stumbles and as Hester
in Equus among other roles.
Debra Spencer invented her own alphabet when she was three. In her desk
she
keeps a Bart Giamatti baseball card, a fossilized shark’s tooth, the tuning key to
an Anglian harp, and a piece of the Berlin Wall. She works at Cabrillo College as a
learning disabilities specialist.
For artist Diane Patracuola, working with her hands began when she was just a
child growing up in Monterey where she helped her fisherman father mend his nets
and paint his boat. When she was 7, she took it to the next level and began drawing
and writing an original cartoon called, “Koottoons.” She explains, “It was about the
adventures of Kami Kaze Koot and his partner Risky Rail, eco-warriors who were
trying to save the planet one mud puddle at a time.”
David Thorn: Father, brother, liver, lover, giver, taker, writer, surfer, rhymer,
schemer, diviner, dreamer: twenty-five appearances in PGR, three time Poet of the
Year, writing teacher at UCSC & Cabrillo (retired), Santa Cruz’s original surfing poet.
Janet Trenchard paints and writes poetry. Often as not, she is channeling the
Pink Curler Headed Ones. She has tried to stop but she keeps catching them passing
through the revolving doors of her mind…
Jon Turner served in the Marines from 2003 to 2007 on three deployments. His
work is a reflection of his time overseas as well as the understanding of the experience after returning home. He currently lives in Vermont, where he is building a permaculture forest farm with workshops dedicated to teaching children and veterans
sustainable practices.
PGR 191
We’re grateful to our sponsers of this year’s PGR
Johnny (Deva Thyme) has been interested in photography and film, as well as
creative writing, since before she could spell. She has lived in Santa Cruz her entire
life—now with her beautiful, inspiring daughter—and attended Cabrillo since 2011.
Her hopes are to make a career as a freelance novelist, photographer, videographer,
and journalist.
Summer Wallen was born in Santa Cruz but grew up in San Clemente, CA. She
can usually be found running in Henry Cowell, swimming in the ocean, doodling on
her back portch, or hiking with her family in Yosemite.
Lindsey Wayland is a poet, a letter writer, a mail artist, a self-taught calligrapher,
and a ceremony facilitator. Lindsey can’t wink, once won a high-five contest at a
pizza joint, and has been writing since age six. She lives in Washington with her
husband, daughter and son.
Ed Weingold: I’m an old “new writer” having come onto the planet in 1941. I’m
in the throes of completing my first novel, the germ of which came off a Cabrillo fiction class prompt over a year ago. I ended gainful employment in 2012 and am now
embarked in the fiction writing game with a hope that my efforts are again gainful
employment to augment Social Security.
Nate Weir Lives lives in San Diego and experiences all the city has to offer through
the lens of his camera with a cup of coffee in his hand.
Jeff Wille moved to the Central Coast about 7 years ago from Salt Lake City and
he lived in Las Vegas NV, Evergreen CO and Manhattan Beach CA before that; originally he’s from the Midwest (Toledo and Chicago). This past fall he signed up for a
creative writing workshop at Cabrillo taught by Marcy Alancraig. Over the years,
Jeff has worked in 3 totally unrelated industries and has had a number of what he
calls personal sabbaticals. He thinks that the experiences that he’s had over the years
coupled with a boundless cast of characters, has given him a wealth of material for
creative short stories.
Ken Weisner, a former sidearm pitcher and right-center fielder, lives in Santa Cruz
and teaches writing at De Anza College in Cupertino where he edits Red Wheelbarrow. For many years, Ken edited Quarry West out of Porter College at UCSC. His
most recent collection of poems is Anything on Earth (2010, Hummingbird Press).
Natalie Yang: I grew up on Mt. Tamalpais, a mountain that is often recognized to
it’s resemblance to a sleeping lady. She is my original muse and every photograph I
have ever taken has been influenced by her. My work is an exploration between figure and feeling.
J. Zimmerman is currently failing to learn Japanese, undeterred by her previous
failures with Anglo-Saxon, Ancient Greek, Spanish, German, Russian, and French.
She likes chocolate.
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PGR 193
David Sullivan’s 1B, Introduction to Literature class, selected, laid out, and
critiqued selected submissions of this 30th anniversary issue of the Porter
Gulch Review.
Matt Nolan
(Alphabectically Ordered)
The Staff: Tyrone Akana, Greg Bloom Van Dusen, Kayla Childers,
Clarisa Chisum, Johnny (Deva Thyme), Joel Ferreira, Annie Finch,
Kate Garrett, Diana Guzman, Darren Dai, Rain Mathis, Amber Ow,
Eliza Powers, Vivian Quevedo, Taylor Sandusky, Samantha Smith,
Jonathan Spooner, Summer Wallen, Chase Wood, Evgeny Yakushev
Brad Grey
Production Crew: Tyrone Akana, Kayla Childers, Kate Garrett,
Amber Ow, Taylor Sandusky, Jonathan Spooner, Summer Wallen
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Submission Critiques: Table of Contents
“A Night on the Subway”: Sexual Violence, The Taboo Topic
By Amber Ow.
A critique of A Night on the Subway by Helene Simkin Jara
196
Neophyte, You Got That Right: While Cultures Get Stuck In The
Mud, by Ty Akana.
A critique of Neophyte Settlement by Joan Maro 200
Lessons Learned at a Farmers Market: Stop Judging and Start Living,
by Clarisa Chisum.
A critique of At the Farmer’s Market by Jeanie Greensfelder
207
Out of limbo and in Distress, By: Vivian Quevedo.
A critique of Limbo, by Josh Fox
Memory: The Weight We Bear
By Johnny Thyme
Critique of I remember by Joan Maro
238
RED BULL GIVES YOU WINGS: Deceiving Outer Appearances
By: Summer Wallen, A Critique of Erich McIntosh’s Red Bull 246
Brad Grey
212
A Night in Honduras Gone Wrong: A Poetic Experience With Third
World Medicine, By Eliza Powers.
A critique of Injured, Honduras by David Thorn
215
You Won’t Believe Where This Baby Came From: Waves of Feminism
and the Fight for Gender Equality. By Taylor Sandusky.
A critique of Unladen Heart by Nita
217
Cherokee: Lost in Translation. By Chase Wood.
A critique of Cherokee in Exile, by Stan Rushworth
222
And: A Deeper Look into Loneliness, by Evgeny Yakushev.
A critique of And... by Margie Curcio
228
Here Tragedy Always Follow You By Kayla Childers A critique of Cinnabar By Barbara Bloom
231
Purgatorio Moralitas by Jonathan Spooner
A critique of Limbo by Josh Fox
236
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“A Night on the Subway”:
Sexual Violence The Taboo Topic
Amber Ow critique of “A Night on the Subway” by Helene Simkin
Jara
Charlie Brown Jr.
In the United States of America, a woman is 10 times more likely to be
raped than die in a car accident (Rape). An extremely common incident but
uncommonly discussed in depth, sexual assault and rape occur much too frequently around the world. “A Night on the Subway”, by Helene Simkin Jara,
is an omniscient and personal account of an attempted rape. “A Night on the
Subway”, which jumps back and forth between Jara’s and the attacker’s point of
view, will have you biting your nails anticipating what is to come. This sexual
violence piece in this year’s 2015 Porter Gulch Review is important because it
tackles an ongoing issue that needs immediate acknowledgment. By exploring
the assailant’s thoughts and the disturbing situation, readers are able to see
that either the psychologically disturbed or those who have been convinced
by themselves or their culture that sexual violence is acceptable commit sexual assaults. It prompts me to ask two questions: one— what is it in worldwide
culture that causes this deeply ingrained dark mindset that sexual violence,
especially against women, is tolerable, and two— what can be done to prevent
it?
“A Night on the Subway” uses two back-to-back perspectives, the victim
and the attacker, to create the full picture of an attempted rape, which is not
PGR 198
commonly done. Stories of rape and sexual assault are often one-sided, Jara
changes that by infusing memoir with fiction. When asked in a personal interview how accurately she believes she portrayed her assailant’s thoughts Jara
responded by saying, “I have no idea, nor will I ever have, if I portrayed his
thoughts accurately.” She went on to explain to me how “the same story [can be]
remembered differently by different people who experienced the same thing.
So who’s to say what’s ‘accurate’ or not really. I suppose the bottom line is my
story has to do with innocence, terror, loneliness and victimization. Both the
girl and the man were victims of a sort.” This had me contemplating how some
people have warped perceptions and some people know exactly what they are
doing when committing a sexual assault or rape. It also had me thinking about
something I had not considered— both characters being victims. Although the
man is not a victim in the same way as Jara, she portrays him to be a victim of
his desires, his loneliness, and who he had turned out to be.
If Jara’s story doesn’t have you reading at the speed of light, at the edge of
your seat, or make you uncomfortable, then I don’t know what will. “A Night
on the Subway” successfully keeps up the suspense, with blow by blows of
each character’s thoughts throughout the chase from the subway to her home,
until the last cliffhanger. Speaking of the last cliffhanger, Jara was willing to
open up about the mysterious knock on her door in the last sentence. She explains that “the real truth is a bit of a longish story…I had a roommate, who
wasn’t home much, but she often brought guys home from bars…that night…
when I heard the knock, I looked and saw a young guy. He asked if my roommate was home. I said no…he asked if he could come in…I opened the door,
he took one look at me and asked me what happened. When I told him, I was
shaking. He wrapped his arms around me and held me until the sun rose.
Then later he made me go on the subway so I wouldn’t leave NYC with the
last memory of the subway as a fearful place”. Good timing on his part to say
the least. This is important information for the readers to know because even
though the “A Night on the Subway” is about terror, loneliness and victimization, what happens after the fact is empowering. It shows that even in what
seems to be your loneliest hour people can surprise you and help you grow.
Jara’s short story is an example of how rapists have warped perceptions,
and with at least 4.5% of the men in the U.S., that’s 6 million men, involved in
rape and sexual assault, it opens up discussion about what allows these men to
think sexual violation is okay and urges them to carry out the act (Koss). Considering an estimated 68% of rapes go unreported, the true number of rapists
is guessed to be considerably higher (Truman). Sexual assault is an extremely relevant topic as a student, considering a woman’s chance of being raped
in college is 1 in 5 (Chemaly). Next time you are in class take a look around
and count all the women that surround you. Say there is 15 females in your
class, that statistic applied to your class would mean that at least 3 of those 15
girls have been raped. Now expand that process to all of your classes, can you
imagine how many people around you have been sexually abused? Even
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if you have not experienced sexual violence it is still a large aspect in society. Men and women alike often dismiss the topic of sexual assault and rape
because it can be uncomfortable and horrific. Soraya Chemaly says it perfectly,
“some people are offended by frank conversation about violence, especially
sexualized violence. I’m offended by tolerance for these assaults, scientific denialism, entertainment at the expense of people’s safety and bodily integrity,
and shame-infused legislation that hurts children and women and is based on
the belief that all men are animals at heart”. The fallacious and invalid argument that all men are animals at heart is a stereotype that teaches society we
cannot do anything about the high number of sexually violent men because it
is who they are down to genetics, which only leads to increased tolerance for
sexual assault. For an overwhelmingly large amount of human history, the human population has lived in patriarchal societies. If you take a look into a history book it is easy to see women were treated as a man’s property, a piece of
property they could do whatever they pleased with. The thing with property
is that one can always accumulate more; likewise, accumulating many wives
has been a common practice around the world for thousands of years. Historically, the majority of societies around the world placed women at the bottom
of the hierarchy. They were placed below male children, poor/unsuccessful
men, only to be slightly above or equal to servants and slaves; being a combination of a female and a slave is the worst possible situation; this can be seen
looking at groups such as the Yanomamo, the Ibo, the Makah, the list goes on.
Due to this hierarchy and misogynistic views, women throughout time have
been regarded by many as less than human. A similar relationship to compare
this to would be how European colonialists (among other people) considered
those of color to be non-human or unequal to them due to physical traits. Due
to this long oppressive history, I believe it has been engrained into the minds
of many men and women alike, that women are less than or unequal to men.
Even though society, at least in the U.S., claim to be the land of the free and
equal, I argue that the patriarchal ideals still heavily influence and effect all
human beings. If these ideals were not so present in the world today there
would not be people blame-shifting, rationalizing, and defending, the acts of
sexual assault and violence to minimize the crime.
The statistics on sexual assault show how out of hand the situation truly is;
rape prevention is a big step not only the U.S., but also the whole world must
take. Sexuality is already a confusing aspect of life, and then throw in the
media, pop. culture, family expectations and morals, school, puberty, religion,
etc. and it becomes perplexing. From the moment you can think, you are being
influenced by your surroundings. Media and popular culture teach women to
bear it all and that being beautiful means being sexy. On the other hand most
parents, schools, and churches teach women to be modest and cover-up. Both
of these views can send the message of body shaming. These two radically
different ideas often clash and confuse society. Should I be sexy so I can feel
beautiful and receive attention, or do I listen to my parents whose ideals make
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me come across to others as prude? Do you see how balance is not taught?
Many churches, parents, schools, media outlets, etc. preach that by engaging
in pre-marital sex with multiple partners and wearing revealing clothes I do
not respect myself. On the other hand media and popular culture tell me I’m
boring and un-pretty if I do not follow these culture norms. These are double
standards that females face everyday. Children need to be taught a balance
from a young age. If an equal value for everyone attitude, no matter how much
skin one shows or how sexually active one is, was taught, I believe men and
women alike would show more respect and would not see anyone, but especially women, as sexual objects but as humans with equal rights.
While you have been comfortably, or maybe uncomfortably, reading this
essay, at least three people across the United States have been raped, molested,
or experienced another sexually violent scenario considering the statistic that
“every 107 seconds, another American is sexually assaulted” (Statistics). If stories such as “A Night on the Subway” or statistics on the high rates of sexual
violence disgust you then good! The issue of sexual violence should no longer
be swept under the rug. Pieces such as “A Night on the Subway” must be written to raise sexual assault and rape awareness and prevention; they must be
written to show how disturbed the mind of a rapist is. Jara exclaims, “the more
we are silent, the worse it is.”
Works Cited:
Chemaly, Soraya. “50 Actual Facts About Rape.” Huffington Post. 26 Oct. 2012.
Web. 17 Mar. 2015.
Jara, Helene Simkin. Personal Interview, 21 April 2015.
Koss, Mary P., Christine A. Gidycz, and Nadine Wisniewski. “The Scope of
Rape: Incidence and Prevalence of Sexual Aggression and Victimization
in a National Sample of Higher Education Students.” Journal of Consult
ing and Clinical Psychology 55.2 (1987): 162-70. Print.
“Rape Statistics.” Crisis Connection. PSC, Web. 16 Mar. 2015.
“Statistics.” Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network. Web. 18 Mar. 2015.
Truman, Jennifer L., and Michael Planty. “Criminal Victimization.” U.S. De
partment of Justice. Office of Justice Programs: Bureau of Justice Statis
tics. 2011. Print.
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Neophyte, You Got That Right: While
Cultures Get Stuck In The Mud
were plastered on every info card and interpretation of the artifacts in
the meusem. These are the people, the Jesuits, responsible for recording
the histories of the first, and arguably “real” Americans. (Appendix A)
By Ty Akana
Critique of Neophyte Settlement at Mission Santa Clara by Joan Maro
“Civilization, or extinction, has been the fate of all people who have found themselves in the track of advancing Whites, and civilization, always the preference of the
Whites, has been pressed as an object, while extinction has followed as a consequence of
its resistance.” ~Benton
“Neophyte Settlement at Mission Santa Clara” by Joan Maro, is a poem
of the history of the Santa Clara Mission that makes very small references to
the mission itself, but instead references much of the Native American culture
at that time. It uses Native American hints in parentheses and quotations; it
also references natural resources which were held sacred by Native Americans. For these reasons I believed the author was trying to show us the true
history of this location, a history of the Native people who were there before
any Neophytes. She demands the reader struggle to understand as the poem
peculiar form, and “fill in the blanks”, just as the dominant culture must “read
between the lines”, to confront their privilege.
As I read this poem over and over again, it kept hitting a nerve; what
is meant by this and that, why are these choice words in parentheses? So it
called for some research, and I investigated. Maro open with “Other butchered cattle wait beneath the mud”, stanza. The visual of that is pretty intense.
Although the Ohlone raised cattle in that area and bones are at rest, I felt that
maybe she was not truly referencing cattle but instead other bones like human
bones since a burial ground was also found next to the mission. Second stanza
says “Elsewhere now, preserved, the native American “cooking house”, built
offsite for its “historic interest””. In this second stanza the author tells us that
for some reason the Native American “cooking house” needed to be moved for
“historic interest”, which references the “museum that houses the artifacts my
team and I unearthed at the site” (Maro). A cooking house is a dome like tepee,
or a tepee, or an area used to cook outside made of a pit and sticks. The term
“historic interest” mea ns someone took noticed that this was there before the
mission and deemed it historic enough to move and preserved it and in that
act removed it from its function to an artifact, on exhibit for others. In doing so
they could control the history released and the artifacts released to the public
for further speculation, reaffirmed in an interview with the author,
The museum I am referring to was curated by the Jesuit priests and
associated faculty at SCU,
and the objects they were curating, the
history they were telling, was that of the Native Americans, who they
had essentially forced into labor 200 years prior. Naturally, their biases
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SCU.com
The Santa Clara Mission was “founded on January 12, 1777, it was the
8th mission in California and it was the first Spanish mission to be a successor
to a college, Santa Clara University” (scu.edu). The Natives to the area where
the local “Costanoans or Ohlone”(scu.edu). “The Ohlones lived a peaceful life
in harmony with their environment, a life that changed irrevocably with the
coming of the Francisan Missionaries”(scu.edu). Then I came across an environmental impact report that stated “several Native American burial sites have
been discover near the subsequent site” (Giglio), the subsequent area being the
mission itself, symbolizing the butchered bones in the mud instead of cattle.
The third stanza states “welcome tourist. Regard its adobe walls and
teja roof.(~used what the land provided them~)”. This is a reference to the mission itself on its structural decor. But the author again leaves a line that references to more taking, “used what the land provided them”, or what they felt
was theirs since “they choose to settle at the mouth of the Guadeloupe” (scu.
edu). In the Fourth stanza the author states “Regard the simple hearth and
kitchen, each milling stone and bowl mortar. The era’s ceramic cooking bowls,
framed and still. (Historians speculate: They kept with their traditional way
despite Spanish influences)”. In these lines the author reaffirms that it is the natives we are talking about and not the Spanish settlers. Maro again uses Native
American symbolism with the hearth, meaning fire place, milling stones, and
different types of bowls to show the significance of the history before the
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mission ever got there.
In the final two stanza Maro writes “As if intact, each earthen reconstruction. On streets beside the mission entrance, passing windshields. Flash
abalone like beads lost in till”. The first line hit me harder as I did my research
for the mission itself had to be “reconstructed 6 times due to floods, fires, and
earthquakes”(scu.edu). Maybe it was because they built their mission on a
burial ground, and that may be the reason they have had so many difficulties
or hardships. However, the further suggestion is that it is still unstable, so now
the dominant culture is similarly “destabilized” capable of fracturing. This
happens throughout time, one past is erased while a new history is written. I
might have said that this was just the Native in me talking and that’s all that
I was hearing, till I did my research and found evidence of my speculation.
Here’s the kicker, as I read the autobiography of Joan Maro in the 2015 PGR
she states “my favorite place to write and work is in cemeteries, both ancient
and modern”. The evidence is written in the title Neophyte which means “A
beginner, a new convert” (Webster 188). A new settlement at mission Santa
Clara, meaning something was already there. A past, a history, and it lies there
waiting in the mud, as a new history is written. Just as the last line states: “lost
in till”, I feel it is truly lost in time! Maro pushes people living in the present
to look for answers in the past, because everything we are told or taught is not
always the truth, we as the human race must accept all races for their value or
values, before we burry cultures in the mud and reconstruct right over them.
SCU.com (above and top right)
Works Cited
www.pardart.com
Benton, Thomas, Hart. Promoting Manifest Destiny on the floor of the Senate, May 28, 1846
Maro, Joan. Transcript of interview- Appendix A
Webster New pocket Dictionary, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing
Company, 2007
www.USC.edu
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Appendix A- Apr 18
Aloha Joan,
My name is Ty, I am writing a piece on your piece “Neophyte Settlement at Mission
Santa Clara “ and had a few questions I hope you could help me out with.
1. What are you really writing about in the piece?
2. What is the most interesting Cemetery you have worked in?
3. What are your nationalities?
4. Also my sister graduated from Berkley a few years ago with an Environmental
Specialist Attorney degree her name is Leina Ala Lei, maybe you might know each
other she is from Hawaii.
5. How do you feel about Missions coming to new land imposing their beliefs and
diseases on the local populations? I appreciate your time to respond and really enjoyed some of the pieces you submitted this year.
Mahalo and Aloha
Ty
Apr 19
Hello again Ty, I have since found a reliable wifi feed, elhamdallah (Egyptian for, “Thank
god!”). Firstly, I just have to say, you are giving my ego quite the boost by writing
a piece on my poem. That is quite an honor. Also, I must relay to you that for
some reason my ipad doesn’t have spell check enabled...So, alas, I may have
a few typos which you must excuse. I have, like the masses, become quite
reliant upon spell check. Tragic, I know, and poor form for one who deems
herself a “creative writer”.
So, back to your questions. 1.) What are you really writing about in the piece?
To be honest. When I write poetry, the last thing on my mind is the reader.
This is a very bad habit I have gotten myself into, but it stems from the fact
that poetry for me is first and foremost a very personal ordeal. Up until 3
years ago, my poetry remained hidden away in journals and on paper stuffed
away in boxes and shoved under my bed. The only person to have read my
poetry was my mother, and a few teachers who, eventually, got me to try and
publish. So, this habit of writing strictly for myself is something I have a hard
time getting out of. When I wrote this poem, I was working at the Neophyte
Settlement at Mission Santa Clara at Santa Clara University. I was working
there as an archaeologist. They were attempting to build a parking lot and
when they were digging they found this incredible settlement. That’s where I
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came in, as an archaeologist. I wrote this poem in about 5 minutes on a
piece of note paper while I was at the site. I was just inspired and had to
write about it. The piece is about a museum that houses the artifacts my team and I unearthed at the site. Museums to me are fascinating. Especially when describing a culture so remarkably juxtaposed to the one doing the curating. For
example. The museum I am referring to was curated by the Jesuit priests and
associated faculty at SCU, and the objects they were curating, the history
they were telling, was that of the Native Americans, who they had essentially
forced into labor about 200 years prior. Naturally, their biases were plastered
on every info card and interpretation of the artifacts in the museum. These
are the people, the Jesuits, responsible for recording the histories of the first,
and arguably, “real”, Americans. The poem is also meant to convey that there
is still a ton of information buried beneath the museum and the parking garage they built upon the site. We were forced to excavate quickly and because
of this salvage archaeology we didn’t obtain nearly the amount of info that
we could have. This is the nature of the field, though, we must save what we
can in the time allotted. I think that this is controversial for a million different reasons and wanted to convey some of that in my poem. This site was the
first of its kind. There has never been a site discovered to date that yielded
the amount of detailed material culture about the neophytes at the missions
before, and it is tragic that one: the university took rights over the excavated
material and then curated it in the museum the way they thought fit, without
any conversation with the living native tribes, and two: that we as historians
were not able to excavate and report on the information the way we would
have seemed fit, which was in an unbiased way and with the incorporation
of the existing native tribes. I wanted this to come across in the poem, when
I referenced the artifacts displayed, what them museum info cards read,
and what was still left in the ground, now forever lost to time and to student
parking. 2) The most interesting cemetery I have worked in was in Sardinia, Italy. It
was a chalcolithic burial dating from about 6000bce. It contained never before
seen funerary statuary that was not only unique to Sardinia, and the niche
that it occupies in world history, but also unique to the world in how religiously advanced it was for the time, meaning the iconography present and
the craftsmanship. Sardinia is a completely isolated island, so this discovery
was completely one of a kind, in that Sardinia is a small island that shares
no other comparative religious or symbolic history with any other location in
the world. It is completely a world of its own. Plus Sardinia was really cool.
And I loved the modern culture and being able to live there for a few months. 3) I am an American, born and raised in CA. My ancestors come from
southern Italy. PGR 206
4) I do not know your sister. Berkeley is massive. She sounds great though!
5) from my research it actually appears that although the natives were
forcibly converted to Catholicism during the Mission Period, the site I was
working on illuminated that their lives, although not ideal by any means,
were not completely the way we have been brought up to think. They were
not always enslaved. It appears that they were given a choice to work for the
missions or live off the land in their traditional ways. Some natives chose to
live near the missions, as life there was easier for them, they could depend on
food and water and didn’t have to hunt and gather as much. It also appears,
at least for the site I worked on, that they were able to carry on with a lot of
their traditional lifestyle ways. For example, they continued to cook and create the same food they would have in their natural environment, they were
just given access to modern convinces of the time, such as copper cooking
vessels. They also continued to make traditional artistic vessels, just using
Spanish materials. For example, we see traditional basket designs, originally
made with reeds, not being fashioned with porcelain and metal. It is super
fascinating to see them using Spanish materials to create their traditional
arts and continue with their lifestyles. And although they were still eating a
lot of the native wildlife, we see them cooking it in the Spanish fashion. So it
seemed they made a conscious effort to both retain their native ways and incorporate new methods with the materials provided by the Spanish. In their
living quarters, we do find crucifixes, which means the Spanish were making
an effort to convert them, which yes I think is wrong, but what we also find
is arrowheads and traditional religious figurines that they would have used
in their tribes pre-Spanish. So either the natives were doing this behind the
Spanish backs or they were doing this with Spanish knowledge. Most likely
they were doing it with Spanish knowledge, as the Spanish kept close watch
over their living quarters. Yes I think it’s wrong that the Spanish colonized the new world in the way
that they did, that they introduced disease and helped to eliminate a thriving
native population without even trying to integrate with them or show any
kind of acceptance. However, to play devil’s advocate, the archaeological evidence suggests that, at least for this period, the natives were allowed to continue on with their traditional ways, at least a little bit, and had some kind of
choice in either joining the missions or not. Now, this isn’t the case across the
board, some missions really did torture and enslave the native population,
but at Santa Clara this does not seem to be completely the case. Sorry, this was a lot of information. I hope this helps. Be careful with asking me about archaeological topics. I will go on forever. As you have seen. Let me know if you have any other questions. Good luck. And let me see
your paper! Best, Joanie PGR 207
Lessons Learned at a Farmers Market:
Stop Judging and Start Living
By: Clarisa Chisum
Critique of At the Farmer’s Market by Jeanie Greensfelder
KOAK
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Have you ever felt judged by someone you didn’t know? It’s hard
enough on our self-esteems that media and magazines pressure us to look
and act a certain way, but when situations come up in real life, that’s a whole
other scenario that can be offensive and hurtful. Respect and minding our
own business has become a foreign concept in today’s society. We need to
make a change to give each other the respect we all deserve. Of course, people
aren’t perfect and that is part of being human. This fact enables us all to relate
to each other. The best we can do is learn from all our experiences, and pass
along our accumulated knowledge. Jeanie Greensfelder has a poem called At
the Farmer’s Market in the Porter Gulch Review 2015 edition that addresses
the topic of interpersonal connections with judgmental people. The author is
approached by a woman who degrades her and causes her to feel ashamed
of her simple action of buying soup. This altercation can be applied to each
one of us by connecting the author’s feelings with our own whenever we find
ourselves in omission. We all struggle to find ourselves, and to preserver in life.
When we judge and degrade each other, that only makes life more difficult. We
all need to realize that we are all connected to one another, we all face our own
battles, and we should be lifting each other up— not judging or bringing each
other down.
We are free enough to make our own choices each day that passes us
by. We need to remember that we all contribute in creating our society, so
we should act accordingly. Our decisions determine the quality and structure
of our society. Would you want to live in a place with people that judge
everything you do, how you dress, or what you buy to eat? Greensfelder’s
poem exemplifies a vexatious moment that makes her feel inferior when a
woman approaches her in line and says, “Sweetheart, you can make your own
soup.” It may seem like the woman in being nice with her choosing the word
“sweetheart,” but in actuality the author felt the comment “pushed [her] youdon’t-know-how-to-live button”. In an interview with the author, I discovered
that this button of hers is very real, and in this moment she “felt so stupid”.
She explains, “I don’t think the woman who approached me was aware she
was being slightly hostile. I think she thought she was being “friendly” and
speaking her preference to cook.” It’s perfectly fine to have our own opinions,
and it’s fine if our opinions are different from others, but it is not okay to
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bombard others with your opinion and force it down their throats. We can
choose whether or not to make or buy soup, and our decision to do either
of those—or our decisions for everything, really— is our own business that
should be respected.
None of us truly know to to live, but we are free to make our own
choices. After all, “Freedom is one of the most cherished and commonly invoked
principles in Western democracy” (Nolan). We determine our actions, but we
cannot see into the future, so it’s uncertain what our actions will reciprocate.
Angelina Jolie acknowledges this in People magazine, “You can never prepare
for the future, because it’s all those things that build up who you are. You
have to let your younger self be scared of things and attack things head on.
Make bold choices and make mistakes, and it’s all those things that add up to
the person you later become” (Jolie). When situations don’t go as planned, we
should not beat ourselves up for it. We should make rational decisions and be
prepared for unexpected outcomes. It’s important to be understanding and
remember that we are all human and make mistakes from time to time; that’s
what bonds us and develops who we are.
The easiest way to learn from mistakes is to learn from other people’s
mistakes, so that you don’t have to make that same mistake. Advice is one of
the most genuine gifts a person can offer because it takes a difficult situation
to experience and learn from, so to pass on that knowledge prevents others
from learning the hard way. The woman that approaches the author in the
poem meant to advise the author that it is possible not to rely on a farmer’s
market, and that she could be independent in making the soup. The woman
was being informative, and it’s possible that she was just trying to be kind by
giving her input. In “Advice to My Younger Self” found in People magazine,
Julia Roberts contributes, “Some people are cruel and dishonest for sport—
but there are lots who are fighting a good fight and running a fair race. That
is what deserves the attention and energy” (Roberts). Her message relates to
Greensfelder’s poem because the woman whom approaches the author did
not intend any harm. Julia Robert’s advice shows that the author should not
have allowed the comment to bother her, but that she should have focused her
attention elsewhere. Gaining wisdom from others is an important aspect in
knowledge growth, so we should be less judgmental on the information given
to us, and rather try to understand the other person’s point of view.
Jeanie Greensfelder’s poem about a simple trip to a farmer’s market
developed ideas regarding interpersonal connection, and how difficult it is
to strive in the world today when people are constantly bringing each other
down. We have the power to make our own decisions about our lives, so we
can create a harmonious society. Our experiences, good and bad, give us
knowledge that we can take with us for the rest of our lives. Greensfelder may
have been hurt and confused about the woman’s judgmental comment, but
it did give her the opportunity to write a poem that will now pass along her
lesson to everyone who reads it. In my interview with her she said, “Lemon
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experiences can make poetry lemonade”. Her trip to the farmer’s market didn’t
go as planned, but the sour altercation lead to a delicious poem. We all have, or
will, experience dealing with unkind people that oppress us, but we can rise
above it. We should all stop judging each other because our words and actions
are powerful. Instead of using our power to bring each other down, we should
lift each other up, and then our world will be more free and at peace.
Works Cited
Brad Grey
“Advice To My Younger Self.” People 82.17 (2014): F6-F16. Academic
Search Premier. Web. 13 Mar. 2015.
Greensfeld, Jeanie. “At the Farmers Market.” Porter Gulch Review 2015.
30th ed. Santa Cruz: n.p., 2015.
Nolan Jr., James L. “The Supreme Court And The Story Of American
Freedom.” Journal Of Church & State 38.1 (1996): 37. America: History and Life
with Full Text. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
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Transcript of Interview
Clarisa:
Hello Ms. Greensfelder,
I’m writing an essay on your poem “At the Farmer’s Market” that has been
included in the Porter Gulch Review 2015 edition. I’d really appreciate it if
I could discuss your poem with you more in depth. E-mail back and forth
works well for me, but if you’d like to meet up in person or talk over the phone
then that can work also.
Thanks
Clarisa Chisum
Jeanie:
Sure, tell me more. Is this for class or ?
Let’s try email.
I live in San Luis Obispo. 805-544-1755 if needed.
Jeanie
Clarisa:
Yes it’s for my English class that actually contributed putting the Porter Gulch
Review together. We all picked a poem that we liked to write about and put
into greater context. I really love your poem. For starters, what was your
inspiration for the piece? The ending lines did not come to me until I was working on the poem. One of
the joys of writing poems is having an ending find the author. When you get
into the zone of writing, as you probably know, you’re grateful for the words
that come to you. It doesn’t always happen. I don’t think the woman who
approached me was aware she was being slightly hostile. I think she thought
she was being “friendly” and speaking her preference to cook.
I am a person who has a “you don’t know how to live button.” And I did have
the grade school experience that I described and felt so stupid. I became a
psychologist in my search for the secrets to living life…and what is the good
life, and what is this human experience we have. I do remember searching in
a psychoanalytic library for the meaning to life.
I had a friend who used to say the line about secrets in the glove compartment.
I loved how ludicrous that was.
I did a search for songs on the secret to life…was pleased to find and hear the
james taylor one.
I didn’t see the woman shopping at the market…just loved the parallelism
when it came to me about her growing her own vegetables.
I’m glad you enjoyed the poem and hope this helps for your essay! Best, Jeanie
Jeanie:
My inspiration was actually standing in the soup line in Baywood, https://
farmersmarketsoup.wordpress.com/buy-the-book/
a popular spot as you can see on the website, and having the actual experience
described in the poem. Lemon experiences can make poetry lemonade. The experience lingered and
days later I began to write.
Clarisa:
I control my urge to
put my hands on her shoulders, and say,
Sweetheart, you can grow your own vegetables.
These are the final lines of the poem, as you know. Did you control your urge
to touch her and talk or just to touch her? Did you really end up saying that to
her?
Jeanie:
Hi Clarisa,
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Nurcan Azaz
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Out of limbo and in Distress
By: Vivian Quevedo
A Critique of Limbo
By: Josh Fox
Great literature doesn’t just happen on the first try. That’s obvious. Countless rewrites, corrections, and grammar checks are needed to
change and shape a great piece of literature. With that in mind, Limbo,
written by Josh Fox who is a three year student at Cabrillo College, is an
example of a work that has been carefully examined over and over to be
satisfied with how its come together, spending over four years on this
piece. His short story follows a man who has been murdered and is now
facing judgment in a unique interpretation where we just might end up
on the other side. It’s an exciting read that blends prior themes and genre
into one refreshing new one that pulls you in with a firm grip, and holds
you relentlessly until the final sentence.
The language used to describe not just the elevator but also the
room in which more of the plot progresses is not overly complicated. The
syntax is not made up of long “English Major” words jammed into every
other sentence. A balance is struck with common words and a few glittering words that brings the piece to a sophisticated level. It’s probable that
he had written it this way to allow everyone to experience the ambiguity
of his short story. I mean, the reader deserves to gasp at the twists and
turns in this imaginative purgatory. Even with the general words, Fox is
also not repetitive with his phrasing, to avoid the reader becoming bored
with the story and scrolling read passed the narrative.
Usually in pieces like this, specific mentions of objects or places
have a reason for being added into the story. Take the elevator’s mirror
for example. Melvin describes the mirror as, “Hovering” over him “with
more reflective gold around the trim, reflecting… the soft charcoal floor
beneath my feet” (Fox). As given away by the title, this man is on his way
to judgment inside of Limbo’s waiting area. Before that part, a mirror is
present. The purpose of one is to view yourself in it but the popular use
of a mirror in symbolism is the reflection of one’s character. The fact that
there is one in the only transportation to both eternal paradise and eternal
damnation is cruel irony (well only for the damned). A different detail
that stuck out was the obvious lack of passing of time, and even though
the protagonist is given a watch, it only provides the illusion of any real
time passing. In an interview with Fox he states:
“I think you’d have to get a completely different watch once
you made it past Limbo. Everyone would get their own
personal watch. In heaven, for most people, it would
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probably be 5 o’clock all the time. In hell it would probably be
9AM all the time, but it would give you the illusion that time
is moving. Every time you glance at it, it seems like the hands
have moved, but when you actually look at it, it’s still 9 in the
morning, or whatever time the person starts their day of work.”
(Fox)
We aren’t given a concrete timeline of when Melvin died and for how long he
was waiting in limbo for his elevator to arrive. The only concrete number that
we had was the fact that he had to wait, “ten minutes” (Fox), for his appointment.
Aside from that we’re left assuming from what time period Melvin came from.
Delving deeper into the watch itself, Melvin’s had only three numbers on his
watch, the 3, 10, and 6. An interpretation that had been generated was these
numbers had heavy biblical significance. It’d been based on the detail that
Melvin’s watch had its hands pointing the 10 instead of either of the other two.
The title gave away that this story was going into Purgatory ideas and how is
one judged in purgatory? By the 10 commandments and the other numbers
represented the trinity and hell. Fox, however, had taken a different route with
these numbers:
“I originally chose those numbers because they are the
first three numbers in the Triangular Number Sequence (besides
1 and 0). There are all kinds of cool history and mathematical
theory relating to triangles, but specifically in sacred geometry,
the triangle or “triad” is the point “in which matter and
consciousness connects to the higher realms.” [...] I think it can
relate to Melvin in the fact that he is clearly having his first
connection to any kind of higher realm (in a matter traumatic
first experience at that).” (Fox)
It was very interesting getting a better look of how those integers integrate
themselves in how Melvin gets along in limbo.
Now we get to the bulk of the matter. There has to be a reason why this
author wanted to write about the afterlife and the judgment that we are to face.
That may be the case in point. The judgment of morality in people. Humans
aren’t ones to walk in a straight line all the time. Issues like, “manslaughter”
or “assisted suicide” is not black and white. The moral line blurs when a boy
kills his father for beating his mother, when a pharmacist gives a suicidal man
the wrong prescription and he overdoses, or when that man’s wife murders
said pharmacist for what he’s done. How does one label these horrible events?
Is the boy guilty along with Melvin and Myrtle? Or are they given a “Get out
of Hell” card? Josh uses the murky waters of Limbo to leave the readers with a
cliffhanger and an open interpretation of Melvin’s final judgment and decided
not to comment on his opinion saying that it would “ruin all of this pure and
unbiased potential for great critical conversations between readers,” (Fox).
Overall, Josh Fox’s Limbo leaves an unresolved ball of anxiety in the
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stomachs of his readers and causes them to think about critical aspects
of their lives. During the process of sorting through all of the anonymous
submissions, this one was the only one out of all of the poems and
prose that had me as one of the major advocates of its publishing. It is
quite lengthy but if you made it through this paper, take the chance to
read Limbo and get wrapped up in Melvin’s struggle in this appealing
Purgatory.
A Night in Honduras Gone Wrong:
A Poetic Experience With Third World
Medicine
By Eliza Powers
Critique of “Injured, Sunday Night, Honduras” by David Thorn
“Injured, Sunday night, Honduras” is a poem that describes getting
stitches in a subpar hospital in Central America. This poem has the feel of a
short story, but is formatted as a poem. The speaker describes a muggy night
in Honduras in a dirty and understaffed emergency room. This poem contains
excellent imagery of a gritty hospital scene, and shines the light on an aspect
of life in other countries that we don’t often see. We get to experience a humid
By David Gerard
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Judgement_of_Cambyses
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night in a grimy hospital through the eyes of the speaker.
This poem begins “& taken by taxi to the free/hospital in Coxen Hole”
(L1-2). According to Trip Advisor, Coxen Hole is a popular tourist destination
in Honduras on the island of Roatan, complete with four star resorts and a
cruise ship port. The speaker is then taken to the free hospital, after experiencing some injury which is never explained beyond knowing it required stitches.
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“through
dark rain-damp unidentified rooms/and into the harshly lit reception pit/
where staff stand or sit around a cluttered counter/under a wall of haphazardly ordered/shelves” (L 5-9). These lines create a vivid image of a disorganized
and dirty hospital. Passages like “nearby, behind a torn yellow curtain/ an
aged grey-brown Honduran gurgles/ his spit as he struggles to breathe/one
more time” (L 17-20) give the poem a grim tone and seems to be very unnerving for the speaker. The scene where the speaker is receiving stitches are two
short lines that are able to convey the sloppy and unsanitary way their injury
is handled, “Doctor comes. No vitals. No IV. No tetanus shot:/the stitching is
rapid, crude, but correct, I pray,” (L 10-11). In first world hospitals you can count
on sanitary and quality care, but in this free clinic the speaker is left praying
the rushed care they receive is acceptable. The last stanza gives the feeling of
a camera panning out at the end of a scene in a movie, which adds an unusual
cinematic element. “down the faded blue hall, I count other patients/or families, the pregnancies, the unruly children, crowded /onto wooden benches
and broken plastic chairs” (L 21-23). As the camera pans out farther, you can
almost feel the humidity of the night, “around us all/the night air zings ever
so slightly: /the indolent simmer of mosquitoes.” (L 27-29).
This poem, in addition to portraying a personal experience, makes you consider what healthcare is like for people in third world countries, people for
whom this medical treatment is the norm. An article in the Huffington Post
described some of the problems the Honduran medical system was facing at
the time. Medical personnel were on strike due to lack of salary payments by
the government and lack of medical supplies. This crisis appears to be representative of the fractured health care system in Honduras. Like many third
world countries they suffer from a crippling amount of preventable, communicable diseases. The CDC in Honduras is working on the HIV epidemic as well
as the prevalent tuberculosis problem.
This poem has the potential to be written into a short story that could give
the reader even more detail and imagery. If rewritten in prose format this story
could use a personal experience with third world healthcare to more directly
shine the light on what’s wrong with the hospitals in this area, and make it an
even more powerful read. The poem draws us into this experience with excellent word choice and imagery, but as a short story there could be more intense
details about this Sunday night in Honduras.
Works Cited
Cáceres, Marco. “Honduras Healthcare System Collapsing.” The Huffington Post.
TheHuffingtonPost.com, 11 Oct. 2013. Web. 17 Mar. 2015. <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marco-caceres/honduras-healthcare-syste_b_4081007html>.
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You Won’t Believe Where This Baby
Came From: Waves of Feminism and
the Fight for Gender Equality
By Taylor Sandusky
Critique of “Unladen Heart” by Nita
The word feminist was at the top of TIME’s “word banishment poll” last
November. At one point, over forty percent of voters wanted to ban “feminist” from being used in 2015. TIME has since apologized, but its misguided
poll is a very clear example of how our society views feminism. Some people,
like the author of the TIME article, think we should “stick to the issues and
quit throwing [feminist] around” (Steinmetz), while others are openly hostile
toward feminists, calling them man-hating, hairy, ugly, lesbian feminazis.
Despite this1 feminism has persisted. Nita’s poem “Unladen Heart” celebrates
the accomplishments of the second wave of feminism, looks toward the
future, and counters the “sexism is over” mentality. This poem wants anyone
who thinks feminism is a waste of time to remember all that feminism has
done for women and think about the battles feminists are still fighting.
“Unladen Heart” begins with a woman burning her bra. Bra burning is
associated with the second wave of feminism, or the women’s liberation
movement. In 1968 a counter pageant was held to protest the Miss America
pageant and the patriarchal system it represents. Bras, high heels, makeup,
and other items that symbolize how patriarchy keeps women trapped with
impossible beauty standards were thrown into the garbage, not burned (Lee;
Rampton), but the bra burning myth was born anyway. “Unladen Heart”
relies on this imagery to hint at second wave feminism. The speaker refers to
the woman’s bra as “the ties that bound her breast//The oppression and the
repression—/that symbol for all to see” (Nita 2–4). The woman in this poem
is a second wave feminist; she views bras as part of patriarchy. In line seven,
she throws her bra onto a fire, and then she leaves “liberated and liberating”
(Nita 10). Second wave feminists successfully fought for many important
rights for women. They brought attention to women’s issues like reproductive
rights, society’s view of women, and the wage gap. Many important advances were made during the 60s, 70s, and 80s—including Title IX, which made
discrimination based on sex illegal in education programs and activities that
receive money from the federal government (“Title IX and Sex Discrimination”), and Roe v. Wade, which made abortion legal in the United States (J.
Lewis).
In the poem the woman “[walks] away” (Nita 9), symbolizing the end
of the second wave. Feminists couldn’t agree on how to view sex and
prostitution, and arguments divided the movement (Engel, “An Overview
1
Or because of: As Helen Lewis said, “the comments on any article about
feminism justify feminism.”
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of Second Wave Feminism”). Additionally, the second wave focused on
straight, white, cis, able-bodied, middle-class women; race, sexuality, trans,
class, and other issues were mostly ignored (Baumgardner; Engel, “Flaws of
Second-Wave Feminism;” Stryker). Third wave feminism was created in part
to give less privileged women a voice.
At the end of “Unladen Heart” a baby is born from the ashes left after the
woman burned her bra. This baby represents the third wave of feminism. The
second wave of feminism accomplished a lot, but eventually burned out; the
third wave was a sort of rebirth for the feminist movement. One of its key
components is intersectionality: Feminists now consider how other factors,
like race and sexuality, can affect power and oppression (Macedo, 9 February).
Third wave feminism is more inclusive; women of color, poor women, LGBT
women, and others are finally being welcomed into the movement (Baumgardner; Engel, “What Are the Three Waves of Feminism?;” Macedo, 9 February;
Rampton; Stryker). The baby also symbolizes the transition to the younger
generation and a new way of doing things; once the woman leaves, the baby is
left to continue the fight. The feminist movement, like all things, moves from
one generation (the bra burner) to the next (the baby). The internet makes this
process especially easy, as young people from a variety of backgrounds can
share their personal experiences online, connect with others, analyze media,
educate, and learn, all without leaving their houses.
I recently interviewed Nita about “Unladen Heart,” and when I asked about
feminism she said she has “no formal education in feminism...so [she] can’t
speak to any of the concepts or current thinking” (Nita, interview). It’s true
that there are a lot of academic terms and ideas associated with the women’s
movement, but one of the great things about feminism is the fact that anyone
and everyone can be a feminist. Nita never studied feminism in school, but her
poem is as feminist as any other. This poem, in her own words, is about the
following:
We have given women the means to control birth but not the means
to control the consequences of unwanted children. In the 50’s and 60’s
“good” girls didn’t have abortions and “good” married girls didn’t use
birth control nor did they adopt out their babies. Sadly, those children
became oppressive burdens that were often thrown away emotionally
and physically. In the 60’s the bra symbolized women’s oppression and repression, but
the throw-away baby embodied that symbolism for many women. The
throw-away baby was what repressed the mother and in the poem I talk
about one mother who shed her baby from her breast, and felt the same
power and elation as her sisters who shed the bras from theirs. (Nita,
interview)
Abortions, birth control, and the pressure for all women to be mothers are all
key feminist issues; women should be allowed to control whether they have
children or not, for their own health and for the wellbeing of future children.
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Feminism is about people’s experiences, which means it should be accessible
to everyone. Intersectionality is a key step in achieving this and uniting more
people, bringing the feminist movement closer to its goal of gender equality.
One of the third wave’s biggest issues is fighting against those who say
sexism is over and feminism is no longer necessary (Macedo, 9 February). Some
people view the second wave as a complete victory, but this simply isn’t true.
As stated before, the second wave of feminism ignored a majority of women,
but it also didn’t end the sexism faced by more privileged women. Only 30.8%
of speaking characters in the top 500 films from 2007 to 2012 were women
(“Gender Inequality in Film - An Infographic”). Gay panic defense, which lets
defendants claim “they were so shocked to learn that their victim was gay or
trans that they had no other recourse besides violence” (Molloy) is legal in 49
states1; this defense uses the victim’s gender or sexuality as an excuse for why
they were murdered. White women are paid about 77 cents for every dollar
their white male coworkers make, while African American women are paid 62
cents and Latinas are paid 54 cents (Carmon). One in six women in the United States will experience rape or attempted rape in their lifetime (Macedo, 16
March). Sexism is not over, which is why “that baby” (Nita 17) needs to be born
from the ashes; some women are happy with their own situations, but sexism
and misogyny are still serious problems.
Lines eleven through thirteen describe the remains of the bras after being
burnt: “smoldering waste” (Nita 13) and “fiery slag” (Nita 12). It sounds like a
battlefield because it is one. Women have been fighting for equality for centuries; they’ve been beaten, ignored, verbally attacked, dismissed, laughed at,
raped, and murdered. The second wave of feminism was simply another battle in a very long war. Like a phoenix, feminism is constantly coming back,
building upon the past to create something stronger than before, making
its way toward a world where gender doesn’t determine pay, respect, safety,
education, employment, health, bodily autonomy, or power.
Brad Grey
1
California became the first state to ban this defense just last year (Molloy).
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Works Cited
Allen, Samantha. “Feminist, Bae, Turnt: Time’s ‘Worst Words’ List Is Sexist and Racist.” The Daily Beast. Newsweek/Daily Beast, 13 Nov. 2014. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
Baumgardner, Jennifer. “Is There a Fourth Wave? Does It Matter?” F’em: Goo Goo, Gaga and Some Thoughts on Balls. N.p.: Seal, 2011. N. pag. feminist.com. Feminist.com. Web. 13 Mar. 2015.
Carmon, Irin. “Why the GOP Is Wrong about the Pay Gap.” Msnbc.com. NBC News Digital, 08 Apr. 2014. Web. 17 Mar. 2015.
Engel, Kerilynn. “An Overview of Second Wave Feminism.” Answers.com. Answers, n.d. Web. 14 Mar. 2015.
Engel, Kerilynn. “Flaws of Second-Wave Feminism.” Answers.com. Answers, n.d. Web. 13 Mar. 2015.
Engel, Kerilynn. “What Are the Three Waves of Feminism?” Answers.com. Answers, n.d. Web. 13 Mar. 2015.
“Gender Inequality in Film - An Infographic.” New York Film Academy Blog. New York Film Academy, 25 Nov. 2013. Web. 17 Mar. 2015.
Lee, Jennifer. “Feminism Has a Bra-Burning Myth Problem.” Time. Time, 12 June 2014. Web. 13 Mar. 2015.
Lewis, Helen (helenlewis). “As I’ve just told @alicetiara, the comments on any article about feminism justify feminism. That is Lewis’s Law.” 9 Aug. 2012, 9:05 a.m. Tweet.
Lewis, Jone Johnson. “Roe v. Wade Supreme Court Decision: Facts and Effects.” About Education. About.com, n.d. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
Macedo, Teresa. WS 1 Introduction to Women’s Studies. Cabrillo College. Room 509 Cabrillo College Main Campus. 9 Feb. 2015. Lecture.
Macedo, Teresa. WS 1 Introduction to Women’s Studies. Cabrillo College. Room 509 Cabrillo College Main Campus. 16 March 2015. Lecture.
Molloy, Parker Marie. “California Becomes First State to Ban Gay, Trans ‘Panic’ Defenses.” Advocate.com. Here Media Inc., 29 Sept. 2014. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
Nita. Personal interview, 14 April 2015.
Rampton, Martha. “The Three Waves of Feminism.” Pacific University Oregon. Pacific University, 23 Oct. 2014. Web. 14 Mar. 2015.
Steinmetz, Katy. “Which Word Should Be Banned in 2015?” Time. Time, 12 Nov. 2014. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
Stryker, Susan. “Transgender Feminism: Queering the Woman Question.” Feminist Frontiers 8th Edition. Ed. Verta Taylor, Nancy Whittier, Leila J. Rupp. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2008. 83-89. Print.
“Title IX and Sex Discrimination.” US Department of Education. United States of America, n.d. Web. 15 Mar. 2015.
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Appendix A: Interview with Nita
Q: How long have you been writing? Where do you tend to get your inspiration? How do you start writing? Do you have a specific place where you like to
write?
A: I started writing before I could write. “Writing” just became the mechanism to get the words in my head onto the paper. My very earliest memories
are of processing writing in my head but not having an outlet to communicate
those musings until I was introduced to a thick red pencil and a lined newsprint
writing pad.
Anything can inspire me—a sigh at the end of a plea, the tension of silence, the downward glance of deception. I am drawn to the bigger story behind the
smallest gesture.
I write when I’m walking, in the space between breaths. The writing takes
shape in miles-long treks from one end of town to the other, and then sometimes
it ends up on paper at the end of the line.
Q: Have you been published before, and if so, where?
A: No I haven’t been published before. I don’t tend to share my work. No one
in my family or social circles knows this secret. People like me are neither poets
not published. This was a fluke.
Q: What made you want to write “Unladen Heart”? Why did you decide to
make it a poem? I read “Unladen Heart” as a kind of history of second wave
feminism, ending with all the possibilities and things third wave feminism can
do. Is that close to what you intended?
A: I wrote this piece as a poem because prose was simply too limiting.
The poem started off as an internal conversation about the phrase “the ties
that bind’ and the implication of what that really means. It brought to mind the
idea that children often bind women to the alter of The Id for 18 years in a way
that is unwanted and there’s recourse in polite society. We have given women the means to control birth but not the means to control
the consequences of unwanted children. In the 50’s and 60’s “good” girls didn’t
have abortions and “good” married girls didn’t use birth control nor did they
adopt out their babies. Sadly, those children became oppressive burdens that
were often thrown away emotionally and physically. In the 60’s the bra symbolized women’s oppression and repression, but the
throw-away baby embodied that symbolism for many women. The throw-away
baby was what repressed the mother and in the poem I talk about one mother
who shed her baby from her breast, and felt the same power and elation as her
sisters who shed the bras from theirs.
Q: What experiences with feminism have you had? How do you feel about
intersectionality and what feminism is doing now?
A: I have no formal education in feminism and so can’t speak to any of the
concepts or current thinking. I grew up in a period (born in the 60’s) when women had to swing their vaginas above their heads to get the attention feminism deserved. Over the last 5 decades it appears that on the one hand little has changed,
and on the other hand much has been gained.
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Cherokee: Lost in Translation
By Chase Wood
Critique of Cherokee in Exile
By Stan Rushworth
“Civilization, or extinction, has been the fate of all people who have found
themselves in the track of advancing Whites, and civilization, always the preference of the Whites, has been pressed as an object, while extinction has followed as a consequence of its resistance.”- Thomas Hart Benton
Have you ever wanted to fight someone? Perhaps you wanted to make
them suffer for the injustices they bestowed upon you by cutting you off in
traffic or by leaving an empty milk carton in the fridge. I have no doubt you at
least know someone who has felt this way, but do you know anyone who has
felt this way for hundreds of years? Cherokee in Exile explains the struggle of
Native Americans in a story that turns out to be a lengthy metaphor (whether
that was the intention of the author, I can’t be sure). In this analytical essay I’ll
look beyond the apparent and try to find a deeper meaning behind Cherokee
in Exile.
At its surface Cherokee in Exile is about a fight between two men who
could be described as “one-percenters”. The author posits this by telling the
reader what car they’re driving. One of them is in a Jaguar, the other in an
Audi. The Audi driver steals the parking space of the Jaguar driver. The Jaguar
driver would not stand for this injustice. The Jaguar driver was there first after
all, he had claimed the spot. The narrator describes the Audi man as being a
brute but does not mention anything about race. However, he does say he has
Celtic ring tattoo, which could be hinting that his heritage is Irish. The Jaguar
driver calls him out for taking his spot and I verbal fight ensues, all while the
narrator and his son watch from the parking space over. The narrator then
describes the man driving the Jaguar. Once again he doesn’t mention anything about race but only eludes to it by saying, “A heavily muscled bare arm
with a thrusting finger came out of the Jag’s open window, a now livid and
darkly tanned face sticking out of the window even further”. Here the author
could be trying to posit that the driver of the Jaguar is Native American. By
now you’re probably putting the pieces together for the story. You think you’ve
figured it out. The story is a metaphor for America’s dark and violent history
against Native Americans. Before you jump to that conclusion lets examine
the evidence. The fact that the tan faced man is driving a “Jaguar” could be an
indication of the man being Indigenous. The jaguar is a majestic and storied
animal that has many spiritual connotations surrounding it. However why
would the supposed Irish man be driving an Audi? If that metaphor were true
wouldn’t he be driving something called the Santa Maria and his nationality
would be Italian? It doesn’t add for me so I choose to look at it another way.
The story is all from the point of view of the narrator who is watching
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the fight from afar with his son. As he watches the angry men in their
petty argument, his son is frightened by the situation. At one point his
son looks up at him and the narrator notices that something has changed
in his son eye’s and he comments that, “little kids feel these things”. Only
by the end of the story does the narrator confront the conflict between
the two men, previously he had only been an observer protecting his
child. He does not know these men and is unbiased towards the result.
Although I get the feeling that he feels as if the fight is unnecessary and
out of place. Ultimately he is powerless and so he remains the observer.
This is the portion that I found to be the most meaningful. This is the part
where the metaphor became clear to me whether it was the intention of
the author or not. This is indeed the story of the Native American struggle. The struggle of feeling isolated to the world around you, a world that
was once your homeland. The struggle of having free agency taken from
you, which leaves you to sit and watch as your home burns to the ground.
The struggle of wanting to protect your children from the chaos, but being
unable to do so. That is what I think this story is about. That being said I
want to disclose that I am a white man from Aptos and probably would’ve
been one of the onlookers rubber necking the fight. I can’t begin to imagine the trials and tribulations indigenous people have had to go through.
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Cherokee in Exhale is written in a causal standard speaking tone. It’s written from the narrator’s point of view so whatever he experiences we experience as the reader. His thoughts are our thoughts. I want to commend the
writer for their observational humor. At one point he said the Jaguar drivers
shirt by saying, “it fit but it didn’t, at the same time, like Harley riding accountants standing outside a hot valley gas mart in five hundred dollar squeaky
clean leathers, weekend outlaws, dream outlaws with grim faces”. I found this
hilarious and it explained the Jaguar driver perfectly in my mind. The story is
split up between the dialogue between the fighting men and the thoughts of
the narrator. It’s a structure that’s become standard among storytelling and I
enjoy the way the author uses it.
The Cherokee Indians has a very storied past. The historically popular
Trail of Tears tells a harrowing story of the Cherokee people. In 1828, they were
forced to leave Georgia after living there for many years because gold was
discovered on their land. The Indian Removal Act of 1830 was put in place two
years later. The white man overtook their homes and forced them to find a new
place to settle. Men, women, and children had to uproot their lives and find a
new home by marching thousands of miles. By the end of their journey about
4,000 of them lost their lives. Currently Oklahoma holds the largest population
of Cherokee Indians. It’s no wonder why Cherokee Indians have such a strong
sense of pride in their heritage.
In conclusion, I think we all have some Cherokee in us in some sense,
and I don’t mean the “I’m 1/18th Cherokee” type of way. We’ve all experienced
some injustice in this world, some harsher than others, but adversity is what
binds us together. The lesson I can take from Cherokee in Exile is to not take
my home for granted. Your home can be taken from you in an instant so it’s
best to live in a state of gratitude. I’m happy to have been assigned this story
because it forced me to look outside subjective little world and realize that
there are other people watching from the sideline.
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Works Cited
Benton, Thomas Hart. “Opposition to the Mexican-American War of
1946.” Opposition to the Mexican-American War of 1946. N.p., n.d. Web.
18 Mar. 2015.
Jahoda, Gloria. The Trail of Tears. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1975. Print.
Rushworth, Stan. Personal Interview,
4-18-2015
Images by Chuckdee from devientart.com and Helens Handmade Creations from Tumblr.com
Appendix A
Interview with Author Stan Rushworth
Q: Is this based on a true event? Are you the man with his son watching the fight?
A: yes, that’s me and my son Rico. Q: What is your Native American heritage (tribal affiliation)?
A: Tsalagi, which is more widely known as Cherokee. I was given to my
Tsalagi grandfather to raise when I was 5, in 1949. My mom told me later
she felt our way of life was in danger of dying out, so she asked her dad
to raise me. He was at a time in his life of pulling away from mainstream
society, on a ranch in the foothills of the sierras.
Q: What inspired you to write the story?
A: few people know what it is for native people living with a feeling
of being surrounded by an alien value system, a system that produces
actions like those in the story. Also, few consider that the forced removals
of native people from their homelands have created a form of exile and a
huge diaspora. I wrote the story to convey that feeling.
Q: While reading I had the idea that even the car models had some
kind of nuanced meaning behind them. Are there any hidden meanings in the minor details of the story?
A: the meanings aren’t so much hidden, but there is significance and
nuance in the car types. They are imports from England and Germany,
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just like the settlers are, and they represent money as a value of power, just
like settler society does. The jag being baby blue struck me as funny, in that
it’s a feminine color on an overly macho guy, an almost comical contradiction.
It’s kind of like a society or town that presents itself as “liberal,” yet has racialization and hegemony deeply underlying it. It also denies its own history, as
the men deny their effect on those around them, while it’s happening. Their
priorities are selfish.
Q: Why did the conflict make the man feel like a Cherokee in exile? Was
it the lack of respect for our fellow man, or the overall petty argument of
ownership, or was it something else entirely?
A: both of the above. Traditional Cherokee culture, in which I was brought
up, disrespects that kind of behavior, the endangerment of so many people,
the grasping qualities the men show, and the exhibition of entitlement through
that brand of power. In most indigenous culture, true power is found or exercised through generosity and awareness of how each of our actions on a daily
basis affects the whole surrounding world. Awareness of that obligation and
the honor of fulfilling it is our job as men. Even as warriors, if you will. Those
guys, who represent much of settler society, have no clue of that type of manhood. They are only interested in domination and force, and they care little of
how their actions affect others.
Maybe someone who reads it will think twice about stealing a parking
place, cutting in front of someone, and be generous or kind instead. Maybe they’ll think of what their job as a person is in every situation. Maybe
they’ll think about native people in a different way, and our history. But
usually, with these kinds of guys, there is little to say. However, I would
say all I’ve said in answering your questions, given an open opportunity.
Q: It’s clear to me that the story isn’t just about a fight in a parking lot. In
your own words what is the greater meaning behind the story and is there
anything you’d like people to get out of it?
A: as I mention above, I would like people to consider that there are whole
other ways to think of other civilizations living right here in the midst of our
lives. There are peoples whose roots go back thousands of years here living
with completely different value systems. I would like people to think about
how those men’s behavior reflects a cultural mindset that has dominated a
land inhabited by millions of people who choose to live a different way. The
conquering mindset is one reflected in the opening quote by Benton. That’s
one thing I’d like people to consider. The parking lot is our land, what we
call turtle island, and this battle is like the battle the settlers have had with
each other over indigenous land since they came. It is also the larger world, in
which these issues of territoriality and entitlement play out, to the detriment of
all. Another meaning, of course, is that no matter who we are or what culture
we’re from, everything we do has deep ripples, and we need to act accordingly.
What does it mean to really be a man? A human being?
Q: If you had chance to talk to the men in the Jaguar and Audi what
would you say?
A: I’m smiling as I think of this. In fact, I did say “ya think?” and the jag
driver had no reply. In a way, the story itself is my end of the conversation.
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Brad Grey
PGR 229
And: A Deeper Look into Loneliness
by Evgeny Yakushev
Submission critique of “And...”
By Margie Curcio
I really like poems that raise typical life issues in an untypical way. The
poem in the 2015 Porter Gulch Review “And…” contains several of these typical problems that occur in a life of any human being: exhaustion, frustration,
loneliness, and misunderstanding. I decided to write about this poem because I
felt that I perfectly understand the author’s feelings and emotions. Because I’ve
experienced all these feelings. The feeling of exhaustion, when I am so tired so
I can’t even fall asleep. The feeling of frustration and misunderstanding, when
it seems like nobody is even trying to get me. The feeling of loneliness, when
I start thinking that I am absolutely alone in this world. The author is talking
about sleepless nights. It’s four in the morning and I am writing. All these are
what the author is trying to put on paper because there is no more strength to
keep it all with just yourself. This poem seems to me like an attempt to find
an audience that would listen and understand. It is a very clear sign that it’s
extremely necessary for the author to express her, I suppose, feelings on paper,
share them with someone in order to be understood.
The first stanza is full of loneliness, exhaustion, and, clearly, depression.
It can be even seen in the layout of the lines: “I feel as though the whole world is
sleeping, / except me. / It is a lonely feeling.” The feeling of loneliness is so strong
in the author’s mind so she even puts herself in her poem on a separate line.
“Exhaustion has settled over me” – this line towards the end of the first stanza
seemed to me not quite fitting into the context. And this is reasonable, according to my experience, because when a person is exhausted he cannot think
straight. It is important to mention, however, that “exhaustion” here is both
mental and physical because it is very stressful to be alone. I also noted that
there are many detailed descriptions of the surroundings, which might be
considered unnecessary, but create this specific atmosphere of depression and
loneliness. For instance, the author is using the listing technique to describe
her “lonely feeling”: “And the air is full of silence, / and the fingertap of laptop keys,
/ and the shuffling of pages, and another fucking paper cut, / and another sleepless
night. / And I can’t write another line / because a swarm of bees is chasing away the
butterflies…” The repetition of “And” creates an intense atmosphere and makes
everything look more depressive from line to line. In addition, I thought that
the author is very distracting after I read the line “… because a swarm of bees is
chasing away the butterflies…” This line can be interpreted in several different
ways. First, it can be understood literally – the author can’t write more because
she is actually looking how a swarm of bees is chasing away the butterflies.
Second, in can be interpreted as a metaphor – swarm is a group of bees, and it
is expelling the butterflies, which can be a symbol of the author. In any case,
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this is another symptom of physical and mental exhaustion of the author.
Different psychologists have different opinions about what does a woman
need in a relationship. Some of the biggest minds can’t even give an answer
to this question. For example, a world – famous psychologist Sigmund Freud
once said: “The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet
been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What
does a woman want?” In fact, this is a very provocative yet truthful statement
– women’s desires and needs vary from one individual to another. However,
there is a list of 7 things that women want in relationship. It includes: “To feel
loved, to feel safe, to feel seen, to be allowed to be nurturing, to feel sexually desired, to
be appreciated and to fell like she can count on her man.” It’s interesting that women
need to feel all of these things together in order to be happy in relationship.
Apparently, the author does not feel them all.
All of these little points the author is making in the first stanza set up the
scene that makes the reader realize how lonely she is, despite that she has a
man, which is entering the room in the second stanza. I am assuming that the
author is a woman, since it is the man who enters the room. He is certainly the
central figure of all her problems. It becomes more dramatic to realize the author’s loneliness and exhaustion after the man’s words: “Sometimes I think you
are most beautiful when you cry.” This is a very clear and obvious reference to the
closing lines of the first stanza: “The frustrated tears come slowly, / dropping like
weighty stones.” Apparently, she cries a lot because of him. The line “… And I am
too tired to fight…” reinforces that feeling in me, but I still think that something
is left behind the scene, something personal, something what the author is not
yet ready to share with the readers. The rest of the stanza is a metaphorical
description of lovemaking between him and her. It is worth to mention that
the author is using same listing method to contrast her coitus, which gives
her a lot of pleasure, with her frustrations and distractions presented in the
first stanza. Specifically, she refers to the process of intimacy as “And we are
energy”, and to ejaculation as “and volcano dust”, and the after sex time as “and
salted skin”. Suddenly, the author changes her attitude towards the man, as we
no longer see any mentioning of stress or exhaustion. Instead, she is now only
describing them together: “Our names are written in bird songs across the quiet
dawn. / Daybreak washes over us. / And together we are waiting for dreams to come.”
Seems like everything is fine after making love with a man.
What makes the poem great and very deep is the last for lines:
I wish it could be always like this –
these moments when he knows me so perfectly –
but morning comes
and he forgets.
These specific lines act as a dramatic reveal to all author’s problems and concerns. It becomes clear to me that this woman is suffering from an unhealthy
for her relationship with this man and she understands it. Unfortunately, the
other people around her don’t, not even the man the author is suffering for.
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And this is what makes her frustrated and depressed. Obviously, the double – sidedness of the man’s behavior, which is nice and gentle at night and
apathetic at daytime, makes the author feel misunderstood. It seems that the
woman loves the man, however the man is only using her for sex, nothing
more. The woman on her end doesn’t feel the support from the person she expects and that makes her feel extremely lonely. It only get worse with the fact
that the author cannot really go anywhere with all her worries, so she keeps
them with herself.
It is probably the good time to refer back to Freud. In the quotation that I
used he states that he cannot give an answer to the question “What does a woman want?” It seems that there is a reason to it – the woman doesn’t know herself what she wants. On one side, she doesn’t feel supported and loved by her
man, which causes her to feel lonely, depressed and frustrated. On the other
hand, when she actually gets his attention, she feels satisfied with him. I am
driving such conclusion from reading all the metaphors regarding lovemaking in the second stanza. This leads to a thought that I just mentioned – the author doesn’t know herself what she wants. As a result, she throws everything
on paper in order to express herself, to not feel lonely and be understood by
someone. However, this doesn’t solve the initial problem – she would be still
unhappy and frustrated about her life and relationship.
The loneliness can be very dangerous in author’s situation because it’s becoming more and more difficult to keep all your frustration, disappointment
and other emotions with yourself. I’ve been through similar kind of relationships, so I know how difficult it can be from the emotional perspective. I am
truly glad though that the author actually wrote this poem and finally opened
herself to people in search for understanding. I am sure that she will be understood and listened, and all her problems will eventually go away.
Works Cited
Cherry, Kendra “Freud & Women: Freud’s Perspective on Women.” Abouteducation. N.d. Web 2 May. 2015
Cherry, Kendra “Sigmund Freud – Life, Work and Theories.” Abouteducation. N.d. Web 2 May. 2015
Hanes, Tracii “Mental and Physical Exhaustion” LiveStrong.com. 2013. Web.
21 Apr 2015
“Preventing Burnout. Signs, Symptoms, Causes, and Coping Strategies.”
HelpGuide.org n.d. Web. 21 Apr. 2015
“7 Thing Women Need in a Relationship” Jordan Gray – Relationship Coach
n.d. 3 May. 2015
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Here Tradedy Always Follow You
By Kayla Childers Submission Critic of Cinnabar
By Barbara Bloom
“Take only photograph... Leave only footprints...” is a popular saying here at
the New Almaden Quicksilver mines. This State Park is filled with remnants
of the miners; the history that took
place here has left its mark, one being a warning, “catch and release
don’t eat the fish”; mining waste
seeped into the waterways and
polluted the fish with mercury. I
am visiting here for the first time
because of the poem Cinnabar,
by Barbara Bloom. The location of
her story takes place in a Hacienda, a Spanish style house, possibly
in Santa Clara area. In this poem,
Barbara leaves you with an unsettling feeling as she touches on the
past tragedy that fell on the minors
and reveals a new tragedy that is
unraveling on two little girls. In the first stanza, the author introduces a man, who not only lives on this
woeful land but also is a collector of it’s rusted tools, “ancient wagons, and pile
of [old] machinery”. The author then goes on to say, “There was tragedy here”
and relieves the history of the Indian miners. Also reminding us that they
didn’t know better, they did not see “ the connection between the red paint
and their sickness.” Cinnabar ore was an important trade among the natives,
mainly because they used it to paint their bodies. They didn’t know this ore
caused mercury poisoning. Of course, that wasn’t the only thing killing them. In 4th grade I
learned about the
missions and their
success at making
the natives Catholics. During 5th
grade I was only
taught about the glorious gold rush but
never the harm that
it did. It was only
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took American history up to 1865; where I learned the truth about how devastating the wipe out of Natives really was, due to the wars and diseases. Some
vocabulary to describe such wipe-outs was germ warfare and Manifest Destiny!! I even learned about Native Americans being forced into slavery, to mine
in California to pay off hospital bills of their loved ones. In the second stanza the man asks, “Are you my girls”, the girls “squirmed
to get off his lap, away from the cigar smoke and something else”. This is the
point where I was questioning his motives and thinking “was it possible that
he maybe molesting them in some way?” Molestation has many descriptions
legally but in general it is making indecent sexual advances to someone (). For
me that means even pressing your erection on someone. Knowing they have
to appease him they say “yes” and dart off. Moments like these I wish adults
paid more attention to the family friend or even the oh so trust worthy family
member. The fact is that child molesters are rarely the strangers, and I have
heard this more often then I can count. Although the parents don’t seem to want to notice, the girl in the poem explains, “the paper cigar rings on our fingers a poor prize and we knew it even
then”. The speaker of the story knows at a young age that this situation should
have never happened but she feels powerless. If only someone paid attention.
This just goes to show that kids understand these harsh realities and adult are
the ones not wanting to face them. Of course no one wants to think it will ever
happen to them or their children but precautions need to be taken. Last year in
my Early Childhood class they suggested that you teach your children about
their private parts and to tell other adults if they were touched. In the last stanza, the girls run outside to fresh air “away from [their] parents and this man who was their [parents] friend”; for me the girls are trying
to distance themselves with this man as much as possible. By physically leaving and linguistically acknowledging that this man is no friend of theirs. The
girls are looking in “dusty deep-set windows” of the hacienda watching their
parents toast this man. They raised their “glasses of red wine and all around
them, relics of the doomed miners”, not knowing they are toasting to the past
horrors and most importantly their own daughters’ tragedy. Though we don’t
really know if the man sexually abused these children in any way, we know
that it is an uncomfortable memory for the narrator. The poem is not long but it says so much to me. The relation of the red
paint to the red wine is subtle but important. The writer of the story says that
she “liked how the red of the cinnabar paint and the red of the wine echoed
each other, but didn’t mean to make a direct relation between them”(Appendix). The connection I saw was how red paint was cherished to the natives and
for us red wine is celebrated daily. Wine is known to be a happy drunk, but if
we are impaired even blissfully we could be missing important information. Barbara says that this poem is based off of a time when she was visiting
her parents friend and it’s just a memory that has “been percolating for a long
time” (50 years). She purposely wrote this poem with a “sense of the darkness/
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unsafeness of this person,” because the memory of this man and the tragedy
of the Indians felt all connected. Appendix A Interview with Barbara Bloom
What inspired you to write this poem?
You asked what inspired me to write the poem. It’s my memory of visiting
a friend of my parents. The memory came forward and seemed important, so
I began to try to write about it. I didn’t like this man, and I didn’t enjoy our
visits to his home. There was a museum on his property, and I remember the
story about the Indians and cinnabar. It began to feel connected to me, in the
way that things often do in poems. Was there any reason why you want to tackle the topic?
Mostly, I wanted to convey my sense of the darkness/unsafeness of this
person and the tragedy of the miners, and the way for children these things
are often instinctively understood. More than fifty years had gone by before
I began to write the poem, so I guess it had been percolating for a long time! Did you at all mean to relate the red paint to red wine?
I liked how the red of the cinnabar paint and the red of the wine echoed
each other, but didn’t mean to make a direct relation between them. PGR 235
Purgatorio Moralitas
By Jonathan Spooner
Critique of Limbo by Josh Fox
After a quick first read, Limbo seemed to be a religious cliché in the
sense that the speaker was determining their ultimate fate: heaven or hell.
This opinion stems from my religious background where purgatory-type tales
are all too common in their stories. The protagonist has clear reasons why
they should be sent to either heaven or hell, and the deciding factor is the reader’s imagination. The ending was left ambiguous, but this opinion changed
after closely reading Limbo a few times over. I believe that the protagonist,
Melvin McCoy, was sent to heaven. My belief stems from Dante Aligheri’s Divine Comedy, particularly Purgatorio. According to the Divine Comedy, souls
placed into purgatory are those that repented too late, such as McCoy. After a
long period of time, thirty multiplied by the amount of time they sinned, these
souls were granted access to heaven after changing their sinning ways. In the
end of Limbo, McCoy admitted to killing George Johnson.
The form and language of this story are what made me choose to write
about it. The language was grippingly descriptive; it was the kind of writing
that left no room for imagination. I could picture the inside of the elegantly decorated elevator, imagine the warm yet eerie feeling of the nippy brick
room, feel the overarching presence of the man in the tuxedo, and feel the
tension, and initial frightened confusion, in the mind of Melvin McCoy. This
was all possible and due to the story being a first person narrative. Being able
to sink into McCoy’s mind set the stage for a story I could not pull myself away
from. Reading the thoughts of McCoy in between the dialog amongst him and
the man in the tuxedo stressed me out as if I were in the speaker’s position.
This form allowed the poem to “fiercely attach to an idea,” and that idea was
internal moral dilemma.
Melvin McCoy’s internal struggle was made clear by the way his attention was drawn to the disturbing painting on the wall: “My mind immediately
returned to the painting on the wall as I could only imagine the pain and fear
that the poor man on the flaying table felt.” The painting, The Judgement of
Cambyses by Gerard David, depicts a corrupt Persian judge, Sisamnes, on a table being flayed alive, in public, for accepting a bribe and delivering an unjust
verdict. The context of this painting can easily parallel the situation McCoy
faced, the reason he is being interviewed in the first place. The “bribe” McCoy
took was witnessing the pain of his neighbor, George Johnson. The unjust verdict he delivered was in the form of the drugs he gave to Johnson, the ability to
release Johnson from his pain in life. This is where I believe close analysis of
the prose and personal opinion come into play in determining the seemingly
open-end of the story. Is Melvin McCoy as unjust as Sisamnes to suffer a cruel,
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painful fate, or was McCoy’s reason for
giving Johnson more powerful drugs a
compassionate action to relieve Johnson of his pain?
After my first read, I believed
McCoy’s murderous action would have
sent him to hell, but that is because I
was reading the story from my perspective which was influenced by the
man in the tuxedo critiquing McCoy’s
choice. After analyzing the form of the
story, first person narrative, and connecting it to the idea of personal moral
dilemma, I decided to think about the
situation from McCoy’s perspective.
McCoy sees his actions as “helping a
friend in need,” has a “glimmer of hope” that he’ll go to heaven because he
was murdered, and believes he’s in the right. The man in the tuxedo acted as
an antagonist to help McCoy come to his own moral conclusion. The man in
the tuxedo made McCoy feel like he was “slowly being eclipsed by the shadow
of despair” and “had once again become the man on the table.” In the end,
McCoy confessed he had killed a man, but still believed it was for a just reason. The language used for McCoy’s confession, “I’ve given you my piece, and
that’s all I’ve got,” caught my eye because if the story were read aloud “piece”
could be mistaken for “peace.” If you use this wordplay with the context of
the Divine Comedy, you can see why I believe the protagonist went to heaven.
After the tense interview, he had admitted his sin and had “given his peace,”
which means he would be ready to go to heaven.
I noticed there was an easily dismissible symbol in the beginning of the
story if you don’t know much about Christianity: the watch. “A silver pocket
watch with only three numbers on it, the one, the six, and the ten.” Each of
these numbers have different meanings within The Bible. The number one
describes the oneness of the Godhead: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
God exemplifies all that is righteous and holy in the world. The number ten
describes the Ten Commandments, the laws that God bestowed upon man.
The number six has multiple meanings. It describes man, whom God created
on “the sixth day.” When talking about man, you cannot leave out Biblical human weakness: sin. This is one of the few reasons 666 is the number of Satan.
Lastly, and most pertinent, the sixth Commandment is “Thou shall not kill.”
All of these numbers foreshadow McCoy’s situation in the story.
This story depicting the immediate afterlife of Melvin McCoy exemplifies how it may or may not be just to help someone out of his or her misery.
Although I believe McCoy ended up in heaven, it’s arguable that he went to
hell. In many cases, the spiritual places Limbo and Purgatory are interchange
PGR 237
able, but in Inferno, the first cantica of the Divine Comedy, Limbo is where
you reside before entering hell. I believe the author intentionally left hints
for both sides of the argument and left the end of the story ambiguous so we
would personally find ourselves in a moral dilemma: was McCoy’s murderous
action just and fueled by compassion, or are his actions unforgivable? I’ve given my piece, and now it’s time for you to decide.
Works Cited
Dante Alighieri. The Divine Comedy, translated by Henry F. Cary. Vol. XX.
The Harvard Classics. New York: P.F. Collier & Son, 1909–14; Bartleby.com,
2001.
The New Oxford Annotated Bible. Ed. Michael D. Coogan. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007.
Memory: The Weight We Bear
By Johnny Thyme
Critique of I remember
By Joan Maro
Sometimes our memories are heavy – whether it is with sorrow, hatred,
or love. The passion that fuels our reasons for remembrance brings forth a weight that we are destined to
carry with us through our life’s journey. Sometimes
even a good memory can hinder us, keeping us from
truly experiencing the present or moving forward because we are so occupied with the perfection of that
one moment. We relish in our thoughts, hoping to
keep the moment from slipping away, even though it’s
already fallen into the past. This conscious act of trying to live within our
mind creates a burden of critical emotion that disables us from truly enjoying
the new experiences that are budding around us. By examining I remember,
from this year’s accepted PGR submissions, I have found a subtle undertone
of emptiness, which expresses yearning that is disguised as mere happiness.
The shadow below the sunlight in this poem in some ways has a bigger impact
upon the reader than the joyful context that it was meant to convey. By bringing us into the memory, and provoking the emotions from similar experiences
of our own, we fall into the same sense of yearning, and therefore emptiness
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– leaving us with a hole that can only be filled by the re-enactment of our
most cherished memories.
Joan Maro writes “and I did not want the sun to rise./I wanted it to blow
out of sight,/and leave us alone in the dawn.” These lines can be interpreted as
a loving thought of not wanting to have that amazing moment end, but instead
are read with a sense of longing, absence. The fact that she “wanted” the sun
to blow away and leave them gives the impression that it didn’t, which shows
a lack of those cravings coming true. The beautiful language used throughout
the poem also directs us towards a deep feeling of nostalgia. The lines “the
warm tickle of 10:00am was always the first face I kissed before yours” have
depth, with great imagery, that allows us to retreat back into our memories of
euphoric mornings, loving embraces, and delicate kisses. This perpetuates the
sense of longing for something that cannot so readily be reinvented.
Love, or passion, from a biological stand point, can be construed as an
addiction because it is connected with a rapid release of dopamine in the brain
(Baur & Crooks). Therefore the experiences associated with the happiness felt
during love are very addicting, which is what causes our sense of craving, or
yearning, for those past experiences. That craving fuels the production of replays from your memories, trying to satisfy you by throwing thoughts of your
preferred feelings at you with sharp force. This becomes a toxic infatuation in
which you are stuck, feeling happiness only when you can retrieve the chemicals you lost to the past.
Since “It’s the brain that interprets physical reactions as pleasurable or
not so pleasurable,” and “Memories are closely connected to emotions, both
positive and negative, and therefore can become a strong influence on current
behavior” (Staff) it is our brain that we should blame for our nostalgic yearning.
Studies have shown the connection between drug use and memory. In one
such study, brain scans
of people who were formerly addicted to cocaine showed high levels
of activity in the amygdala when those people
watched a video including cocaine and drug paraphernalia. The amygdala is a part of the brain’s
limbic system that is critical for both memory and
emotion, showing the
close link between these
two brain functions. When a person suffering from substance abuse experiences a craving for a drug, memory of the pleasurable experience and the emo
PGR 239
tions connected to it combine to override their logical thinking and make it
very hard to resist taking the drug. (Staff)
Though this reference has to do with drug addiction, the same is true
for passionate love, as it is considered an addiction in the sense that the symptoms and biological processes that happen during drug use and addiction also
happen during the early stages, or passionate stages, of love (Baur & Crooks).
Those days when you’re head over heels as you fall madly in love, blindly following your heart to such an extent that it becomes unhealthy for you, that’s
when you’re addicted.
Researchers and clinicians in the field of addiction are discovering and discussing a long-known but here-to-for unnamed phenomenon in addiction,
called Addiction Memory. We first used this term in our work eight years ago
to describe a clinical phenomenon, whereby an individual who suffers from
addiction has a specific, hard-wired recall of an addiction related euphoric
event (or conversely, a horrid event) that was associated with drug or alcohol use. The event had to overwhelm normal memory channels, producing
a memory video clip that the recovering addict cannot shake off. The intense
replay of such memories haunts the recovering addict and produce relapse in
its hapless victims. (Earley)
Humanity tends to succumb to addiction too easily, whether through drug
use or other means. Our brains become quite familiar with certain incidents
that have caused us the most intense emotions, reactions, and otherwise. Intensity, therefore, fuels the rapid replay of memories as I earlier stated. In many
ways this is hard on us, both physically and mentally, to have to relive an event
over and over again in our minds, whether or not the event caused us great
joy or pain.
When I was interviewing Joan Maro, she
told me that memories could definitely be a disadvantage “If we aren’t moving on from them,” and
that some of her memories, if she hadn’t turned
them around and used them to help her move forward, may have kept her “dwelling on the hopelessness and sadness, letting it consume (her),
making (her) feel ashamed and embarrassed.” Our
greatest depths within our own emotions come
from these insane and intense experiences that
lead to our chaotic obsession-ridden memories.
Therefore, I can conclude that this author has done
a wonderful job, for she has re-opened our eyes
to our own dysfunction. Giving us the memory of
passion brings with it a whole stack of emotional
baggage, though, without it we may be destined to
walk aimlessly through our lives, unsure of what
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it is we really want. So, in a sense, addiction, though relentless and aggravating, can actually be the core to which all good and bad comes from. It allows
us to delve deep into ourselves and produce a path or outcome that has real
meaning to us, something that is packed both with strength and desire. Plus,
without a reminder of our own faults, the faults that connect us with the rest
of the life on this planet, we become mundane and bored within our own skin,
unattached to a notion of moving forward with ourselves to leave the bad behind and finally reach the good – that cosmic experience we crave. Living life
without those thick chains yanking your soul towards the things you want,
without feeling deeply for the things you do, leaves you with a lack of purpose, a lack of reason to do anything within your life, good or bad. Thus, these
addictions, including memories, are the only things that truly get inside of us
to influence what it is we want to do and where in life we want to go.
In the end Joan Maro’s words, and descriptive language, in I remember
bring us comfort in our sense of longing as we feel connected to a greater world
within and outside ourselves, and allow us the realization of our never-ending
condition of life’s great burden called memory. The subtle undertone of emptiness that I read into this poem, though partly influenced by the fact that “this
poem came after a suicide attempt” (Appendix A) I feel it is mostly impacted
by the sorrow of longing. As Joan Maro told me, “now that I reread the poem,
although I was unaware of this at the time of writing, I can see that feelings of
unworthiness, sadness, confusion, and loss influence this poem.”
Works Cited Page
Baur, Karla; Robert Crooks. 2014. Our Sexuality. 12th Edition. Wadsworth,
Cengage Learning. Belmont, CA. March 12, 2015. Print.
Earley, Paul H. 2009. Addiction Memory. March 15, 2015. Web.
http://paulearley.net/addiction-memory.html
Staff, Casa Palma. 2015. Memory’s Effect on Addiction and Recovery.
March 16, 2015. Web.
http://casapalmera.com/memorys-effects-addiction-recovery/
Photo Credits
Desert
Walk
(http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VoyY-94E7Xs/T-7xLYdFkFI/
AAAAAAAAGXg/VUqJhoTIpYg/s1600/loneliness.jpg)
Addiction Joke (https://ainperiodic.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/addiction.jpg)
Brain Gears
memory-2.jpg)
http://www.costaricantimes.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/
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APPENDIX A
Question #1: How long have you been interested in poetry?
Since I could hold a pen and write down my thoughts. It was the first drug
I ever knew. The first release of all the pain and anxiety I was holding inside.
I don’t ever remember not being interested in poetry. I just remember one day
writing it, and not being able to stop. My poetry is triggered by my emotions.
It is as simple as that. I write only when I need to and when I feel it inside of
me. I first felt like that when I was about 3. I can’t explain it. I knew that I had
to write, even at that early age, without even really being able to fully comprehend what I was doing. I knew I just had to do it, that if I didn’t do it that I
would die.
Also, my favorite book growing up was a book of Halloween Poetry
called “It’s Halloween” by Jack Prelutsky. My mom used to read it to me every
night of the year, no mater the season, as I was quite a morbid little child. I
memorized it when I was 2 years old, so maybe my love of poetry stems from
that book.
So to make that answer more concise, I have been interested in poetry
for about 24 years.
Question #2: What first got you into writing poetry?
Either the book I mentioned in question one or my Muse who has been with
me since birth. To be honest, I have no idea what got me into writing poetry.
I just know that I have always been doing it. When I would got stressed out
and angry, even as a young child, I would just start writing poems, to get my
emotions out, to unleash whatever pain I was feeling inside. I never remember
being exposed to how to write poetry. I just remember always knowing how
to write it. Call it fate, destiny, or whatever, but I truly believe it has always
been a part of me. It just IS for me. It’s that simple. I can’t explain it. It’s just
there. As I got older and learned to understand the academic structure and
technicalities of poetry, I fell even more in love with it and allowed my self to
experiment with different poetic forms and took poetry classes to enhance my
knowledge, but that only built upon the foundation I had firmly established as
a very young child.
Question #3: What is your connection with Cabrillo/How did you find out
about the Porter Gulch Review?
I went to Cabrillo from 2008-2010. I earned my AA in Anthropology, and
then I transferred to UC Berkeley. I returned to Cabrillo in 2012 to take a poetry class for fun, and it was my teacher, Adela Najarro, who suggested I submit
my work to the PGR. I did and I won an award for best poem and a scholarship
for my poem as well. I have been submitting every year since.
Question #4: What inspired you to write this poem?
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I woke up one morning, looked outside, saw that it was dawn, started making coffee, thought of my moms lemon cookies that she makes, and then I sat
down and wrote this poem out in about 4 minutes. I don’t usually think about
poems before I write them, that is rare for me. I usually just write and see
where the poem takes me, the images and story unfold before me as soon as I
start to write, and I have to hurry to keep up with the words and images before
I loose sight of them, which is probably why I always write poems so quickly.
I just felt it one morning and had to write.
Question #5: What emotions influenced this poem?
I have absolutely no idea. I’m afraid that’s a pretty anticlimactic answer. I
think this poem occurred a few days after I had had this one night stand with
this boy that I sort of liked. We drank a lot of wine together, and then, well,
you know the rest. I think it’s a combination of that, and the house that I currently live in near the beach on the east side. A lot of the imagery in the poem
was conjured from my home. I also love coffee and lemon cookies. However,
now that I reread the poem, although I was unaware of this at the time of
writing, I can see that feelings of unworthiness, sadness, confusion, and loss
influence this poem.
Question #6: How were your emotions integrated into this poem?
It is impossible to write a poem devoid of emotion, isn’t it? My emotions are
integrated into this poem, specifically, because I am recalling a memory, I am
diving head first into this memory and indulging in all the sensory experiences generally forgotten by time. This memory in particular, is one wrought with
pain and grief. By giving myself up to the poem, and writing about the different scents, feelings, images, and movements, is how I integrated my emotions
into the poem.
Question #7: How did you intend for your poem to be interpreted?
To be honest, when I write poetry, the last thing on my mind is the reader.
This is a very bad habit I have gotten myself into, but it stems from the fact that
poetry for me is first and foremost a very personal ordeal. I still don’t know
how it is suppose to be interpreted. My poetry takes on a life of it’s own; I am
just the vessel it feeds itself through. Ask the poem how it is meant to be interpreted, because I have no idea.
Question #8: Why did you decide to send this poem in to the Porter Gulch
Review?
That’s a good question. To be completely honest, it was because it was a finished one that I had on my computer and one that I wasn’t totally ashamed of,
so I sent it out and hoped for the best, but I didn’t expect it to get published.
Question #9: Did you feel a sense of longing for that lost moment when you
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wrote the poem?
No, because when I wrote this poem I was in the throws of an alcohol and
Xanax induced downward spiral of depression. That emotion is probably only
evident to me. I tend to write poems with positive feelings in them, like in this
poem, when I feel quite the opposite, because I am trying to create a world
I can escape into for a while. Like I have said before, poetry is an extremely
selfish endeavor for me.
Question #10: Were you aware of the subtle undertone of emptiness your
poem possesses?
I am glad you were! Heck yes I was. This poem came after a suicide attempt,
so, yeah, I am not surprised that there is that undertone. It wasn’t intentional,
as I have said, my poems just sort of happen on their own, they appear out of
no-where and I am just the one recording them, but since it is connected to me,
I am not surprised it adopted that vibe.
Question #11: What are your thoughts on the concept of memories? In what
way do you think they influence us?
For the sake of time I won’t get too philosophical here. Memories are the past.
They influence us constantly. They teach us. Whether we learn though making
mistakes or we learn though realizing how much we love or like something.
Our memories propel us forward or push us back, depending on the memory,
but, no mater what, they are a part of us, and thus a constant influence.
suicide attempt and I choose to take that memory and use it for the greater
good, meaning, I carry it with me as a reminder to make sure that everyday
I am living life to the fullest. But I could have taken that memory and used it
to my disadvantage, my dwelling on the hopelessness and sadness, letting it
consume me, making me feel ashamed and embarrassed.
Question #15: What do you think are the positive aspects of memories? What
makes them beneficial to us?
When we remember being loved or cared for, places we feel comfortable,
people we enjoy being around….
Question #16: When you wrote this poem what kind of a mindset were you
in?
Profoundly depressed and possibly hung over.
Question #17: Skipped
Question #18: Was this poem written about a real situation in your life? If
so, what was it that made you feel the need to express that moment through
poetry?
It was about a few moments I had with my ex-boyfriend. I still have not fully
gotten over him, even though it has been 2 years. I am still working through it.
So, I think those unresolved feelings made me feel the need to express certain
moments I had with him through poetry.
Question #12: Do you believe that good memories can sometimes be a
weight on us? Keeping us from moving forward? Keeping us from accepting
anything less in our lives?
Absolutely. Yes. I have memories of getting a 4.0 at Berkeley, now I cannot
accept failure, for example. Or, I once starved myself down to 90lbs, now I feel
like when I am any heavier than that I am fat.
Question #19: Do you think that your own interpretation of that poem or
that memory may have been altered in some way over time? What are your
thoughts and emotions around it now compared to when you wrote it?
I think they are the same. Like I said, my emotions control the poem. My
emotions wrote this. My emotions leaked out of my skin and made their mark
on the paper, in the form of a poem. When I read the poem, I can still see and
feel that mark, as clear as it was the day it was left.
Question #13: Do you think that memories can set standards for us when we
consider our futures?
Of course they do. For example: I have been raped 8 times and have vivid
memories of each of those rapes. That, and I have never had a healthy relationship with a boy; they either hurt me, cheat on me, beat me, or find some
other way to abuse me. The bastards. Therefore I am a lesbian, just kidding.
Therefore, those memories have caused me to set ridiculously high standards
for men, so high that no man can ever meet them, thus saving me from any
potential pain (but also keeping love out too, yes I know).
Question #20: Do you hope to inspire anyone with your writing; perhaps to
look more closely at their own lives, relish in the moments, or express themselves through poetry or art? What do you hope people get out of reading your
poem?
I have never thought about this before. I have never tried to write for anyone
else before. Its always just been me or not even me but my emotions acting on
their own accord. I hope oen day to inspire people, to help people if I can. I
have not gotten there yet. But I hope to some day.
Question #14: Is there any point where you feel that memories may be more
of a disadvantage than a benefit?
Yes. If we aren’t moving on from them. For example, I have a memory of my
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Question #21: Are there any last comments you’d like to add about yourself
or your poem?
If it seems confusing. It is. Like I said, it’s hard to explain. My poems act
alone. I am just the one holding the pen.
PGR 245
RED BULL GIVES YOU WINGS:
Deceiving Outer Appearances
By: Summer Wallen
A Critique of Erich McIntosh’s Red Bull
Junk food is created with the intention of being addictive. We want it,
we crave it, and we need it. How else do you think they sell it? People don’t
care how bad it is or how cheaply it was made, they want it. More than onethird of Americans are overweight or obese (Ogden et al., 2014). Those two
thirds can, generally speaking, give some “thanks” for their excessive weight
to the junk food companies of the world. This is because junk food is deceitful. It’s sweet, and gives instant gratification, a rush of adrenaline, and a flow
of endorphins in the moment. However the consequences are delayed. They
are internal and one cannot see the problems that may lie in their future because of it. Energy drinks are a great example of this with their appealing outside but bring dangerous repercussions, just like deceptive relationships. In
a concise and witty manner, Erich McIntosh uses the analogy of Red Bull to
exemplify the negative consequences behind, and speaks on the truth on, deceitful relationships.
She’s no angel. She just drank a red bull Erich McIntosh was born in Wisconsin, grew up in Laguna Niguel, and
now lives in Santa Cruz. As a writer, “it is my catharsis. My adventure into a
world where I can literally do anything. Among other things, I’ve been called
“limitless”, and that has been my mantra, especially on the page/performing.”
(McIntosh 2015) Doing most of his writing in public places, his inspiration
comes from what is around him. Sitting in coffee shops, his favorite being the
local Verve on 41st avenue, is a breeding ground for life. People coming and
going, needing life through caffeine, meeting lovers in the window booths,
stressing over work, and losing themselves in a book. Sitting in a coffee shop
and people watching is quite the adventure. Observing social situations is
where McIntosh gets a lot of his inspiration. He gets inspiration from friends,
girls that he is pursuing, and music he enjoys. This one liner is his favorite line
he has ever wrote and broke the normal of submitting anything but a one-line
poem. Viewing it as a challenge, he wanted to see if it could be published. I can guess that 90% of people that read this will be somehow associated
with the Literature field. So don’t stop reading when I say that we are going to
use some math to dig deeper into this poem:
“Red Bull gives you wings” (the slogan for Red Bull)
The idea that angels have wings
The thought that Red Bulls effects are temporary
The author compares the girl with an angel
=Temporary Angel like qualities of the girl
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See, that wasn’t so hard. Now, with that spelled out, we can see that this
so-called lover of his deceived him whether purposeful or not, into believing
that she was his perfect angel. She had the qualities that could have only been
obtained by the feign effects of a Red Bull or other non-genuine ways. McIntosh stated, “Previous experience has developed a general distrust in people.
Specifically women I have brought in close” (McIntosh 2015).
The relationship explained in the poem is just as much of a hoax as the
Red Bull slogan. “RED BULL GIVES YOU WINGS!” This commonly known
phrase deceives you instantly. Now I think we all can agree that we know
we’re not going to grow wings every time we drink a Red Bull. But this slogan
also blinds us to the fact that these “wings” are they are advertising is nothing more than a feeling. Wings representing the ability for this energy drink
to give you energy, and provide you with the care you need to get through. “MIND BLOWN” was most of the reader’s reaction directly after the first reading, and after the second reading, and the third reading. The feeling remains
with you. Its simple nature almost gives you a sense of “wait, why didn’t I
think of this?” This is why it is pure genius, leaving a lasting impression.
Labels are deceiving. Red Bull promises to give you everything that you
need. “Vitalizes your body”, the can says. Giving the consumer the inhuman,
unnatural effects and persona that they do not actually obtain. To others, the
consumer seems like an incredible human, an angel, if you will. It looks so
appetizing on the outside, like a cool refreshment on a hot day. A promise to
give you life to help you to support you, the potential to revamp you, make
you happy and sustain you, a promise. The author of this poem clearly experienced first hand false advertising. His angel wasn’t actually an angel at
all. She made the author believe that she was. An untruthful reality of who
she was. After all she had just drank a Red Bull.
We all fall for it, we all do. The fake advertising, and vein outer surface of
others. It tastes so good. Even when you’re drinking it, in the moment: sweet,
satisfying, a rush of adrenaline, everything you wanted and more. However,
when we least expect it comes the crash. In the poem, the crash that the energy drink brings can be compared to the crash of bad relationships. When the
Red Bull wore off, she shed her wings creating the realization and revealing of
the truth. She was no longer an angel, and no longer the authors. The author
was left with nothing. When the crash came, the life love and care that the
Red Bull infused angel promised, left as well. With energy drink crash, all the
energy, nourishment, and encouragement that it promised you on its label is
gone in an instant.
This sudden shift in emotional reactions and feelings by the girl are also
related to the gender differences. Mark Prigg in a study done supports the
claim that men and women emotionally react differently to stimuli. Women
can be an “angel” one minute, and then lose her wings another minute. Then
become a “devil”, if you will. The gap between men and women emotionally
is a constant problem in today’s society. Anywhere from miscommunication
PGR 247
to misinterpretation, things can go wrong very easily when trying to grow
in relational ways. However, we as humans will never stop to find our own
Angels.
This poem catches your eye and never leaves your brain. The fact that it
is so short doesn’t hurt its chances of being memorized either. I am sure the
same thing happened to the author of this poem. The girl immediately caught
their eye. From the beginning, it was youthful, playful and true. In the youth
of this age, there are so many things that can deceive us. From social media to
the new innovative ways to cover up our insecurities. In some cases, it’s Red
Bull. In 2014, Red Bull was actually sued for falsely claiming that their product “gives you wings”. A fake burst of energy that is only hurting your body
more than helping it at all. Red Bulls come with a hidden promise of damage in the ladder years. Poisoning our body, mind and spirit without us even realizing it. It gets into our
crevices and cracks, fulfilling us in unwholesome and unhealthy ways. Erich
McIntosh shows us that relationships can sometimes be like this. They are
outwardly promising and hopeful, with a crash and burn inevitable ending
that you never saw coming. Things are temporary. In such a short amount of
time, there is so much meaning; one is almost shocked at how much is packed
into 9 little words. This poem is temporary, and over in an instant. Leaving you hanging with nothing left but your own thoughts. Others may have
wings like an angel, but we can never predict where they came from or where
and when they might go. Book Reviews Table of Contents
Adolescent Uncertainty: The Depth of Perspective, By Johnny Thyme
Sophie’s House of Cards, by Sharon Oard Warner
250
The Misconstruing Ideas of Feminism: How Wonder Woman’s Comics Exemplify
Issues of Inequality. By Clarisa Chisum.
Wonder Woman, by Noah Berlastsky 254
Bicentennial: A Parenting & Poetry Lesson. By Amber Ow.
Bicentennial, by Dan Chiasson
260
See You Again, By Darren Dai.
Some Nights No Cars At All, by Josh Rathkamp
263
ALIENS, MERMAIDS, TALKING ANIMALS, OH MY!: Questioning Social Constructs. By Summer Wallen.
If The Tabloids Are True What Are You? by Matthea Harvey
266
Prejudice Thrives, By Jonathan Spooner.
Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankkine
271
X: Working With a Cliché to Create a Bestseller. By Evgeny Yakushev.
X, by Ilyasah Shabazz and Kekla Magoon
274
The Attractive, Immortal Asshole: Bad Boyfriends in Young Adult Novels. By Taylor
Sandusky.
Cathy’s Book, by Jordan Weisman and Sean Stewart (illustrated by Cathy Brigg) 277
Papercuts on My Heart. By Vivian Quevedo.
Paper Things, by: Jeniffer Jacboson 285
The Falconer: A Quest for Vengeance and Character Development. By S. Rain Mathis.
The Falconer, by Elizabeth May
289
Brad Grey
Artwork by Summer Wallen
PGR 248
Finding Ones Self (by Playing the Part). By Kayla Childers.
Playing a Part, by Daria Wilke. 292
Race, Prejudice, and the Power of The Written Word. By Eliza Powers.
Lady Moses, by Lucinda Roy. 297
Young Adult and Graphic Novels: This Generation’s Philosophy Textbooks
by Annie Finch, The Sculptor, by Scott McCloud
300
The Sky Is Shooting Blue Arrows: Love, Life, and the Beautiful Journey In-Between
By: Ty Akana. The Sky is Shooting Blue Arrows, by Glenna Luschei
306
The Hotel Ambiguity
By Chase Wood, The Hotel Alleluia, by Lucinda Roy
310
PGR 249
Adolescent Uncertainty: The Depth of
Perspective
By Johnny Thyme
Sophie’s House of Cards
http://graphics.
Sharon Oard Warner
wgadesign.com/perUniversity of New Mexico Press
spective.html
Have you ever read something that made you feel like part of the book,
up in the action, on the front lines, and biting your tongue with anxiety as you
read each word, flipping from page to page, unable to stop until you get to the
very end? Well, Sophie’s House of Cards by Sharon Oard Warner is a very interesting book, but it isn’t quite like that. The characters were all so unique that
it made them relatable, but at the same time their actions were unpredictable.
That in turn did make for a very exciting read, but it wasn’t as intriguing as I
had hoped it to be. However, I did enjoy the setup of the chapters and the style
of the writing. Overall, the book was great but needed more predictably along
with thick mystery to provide a rich background with lots of excitement.
The beginning of each chapter presents a tarot card with a description
of that card, and with every one of them they relate somehow to the chapter,
bringing a refreshing approach to the novel writing world. The tarot cards
are then brought up throughout the book, giving a connection to the house of
cards as a precarious structure, being used as a model that replicates the fragile uncertainty of Sophie’s life. In the beginning of the book it shows Sophie
building a house of cards, describing the action in vivid detail.
…Sophie straightens and turns, revealing a house of cards… To the outsider, the structure probably appears delicate, but the first story is sturdy. Blow as
hard as you like; you won’t knock it down. The second is another matter. It’s
as apt to collapse as it is to stand. … As she attempts the third story, Sophie
bites her lip. She holds four cards, two in either hand. To stand, they must be
planted at the same instant. (Warner 42)
The levels of the house can be mimicked within Sophie’s life. The first,
sturdy structure would then apply to her family, best friend, and all that is
concrete in her life, implying the hard ground on which she walks upon and
relies on in order to move forward. The second story applies to the situations
within her life that she is dealing with, the uncertainty of the results for each
action. Her actions may lead to destruction, forcing her to start that level of her
life all over again, but she’ll still have her first layer to fall back on. And lastly,
the third row of cards represents the way in which she handles the results of
her actions and finally settles her life into its path. As she places the final cards
onto her life’s structure she has to be gentle and precise in order not to knock it
down, it has to be just right. However, once she is finished building her life she
can simply sit back and appreciate the beauty and hard work. As simple as this
process sounds, when applied to her life each step could take quite a long time,
PGR 250
especially if each level needs to be rebuilt again and again. After all, the life
on a teenage girl can be quite bumpy and chaotic, things change within the
structure regularly, often allowing the levels of the structure to tumble and
fall. Nonetheless, each time these levels are rebuilt the builder becomes more
knowledgeable about the ways in which they want to create the structure,
learning what works and what doesn’t work. In the end the builder knows
exactly what it is they want within their structure and are able to complete it
with strength, turning it into something worth looking at and savoring.
Looking at tarot cards from a historical point of view the cards used to represent a lot more than people seem to understand they do today.
A preexisting body of codes and correspondences, coming to us from late
antiquity, is the skeletal structure upon which Tarot is formed… Based on the
Hebrew alphabet, Kaballah, Pythagorean number and harmonic theory, and
the signs and planets of Astrology, this structure is as old as Western civilization. Before there were Tarot cards, these astro-alphanumeric correspondences
of related systems were firmly in place. No doubt the first Tarot cards were a
reflection of these early archetypes, but for safety’s sake they were stripped of
the letters, numbers and other pagan symbols offensive to the Church. (Payne-Towler)
This brings a rich background into the idea
of tarot cards. It also shows a greater meaning behind using tarot cards throughout the
book to demonstrate the parallel between
symbolism and reality within Sophie’s life.
The author, Sharon Oard Warner, also did
quite a lot of research on tarot in order to
complete her book. Lots of research including many, many books, as well as an online
website www.learntarot.com, which she recommends to her readers.
Since this book is such a unique one it is
kind of hard to compare it directly to anything else. However, there are some similarities in relatable fiction genres. This book
was sectioned into 5 distinct fiction genres,
but the most prominent would have to be the
http://www.amazon.com/Somother and daughter portion since the story
phies-House-Cards-A-Novel/
is told through the eyes of them both. There
dp/0826330770
is some general information about the genre
that I find helpful when thinking about the
quality of this book. One aspect of mother and daughter fiction is secrets of the
past, which “often come between the mother and daughter of novels, threatening their relationship. A mother who attempts to protect her daughter from
truths she believes will hurt her often encounters resentment and anger, while
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openness can bring new understanding” (Special Collections). This is quite
evident within the Sophie’s House of Cards while Sophie’s mother tries to hide
her past with the tarot cards, unwilling to show her daughter how to properly
use them. However, the depth to this secret isn’t shown. There isn’t much secrecy around it because Sophie already knows about the tarot cards – Sophie’s
mother is simply being stubborn during the story instead of truly secretive. It
lacks a sense of mystery that I believe would be beneficial to the story.
Nonetheless another enjoyable aspect of this book is the style of writing.
Every chapter is separated into different sections that are written in contrasting points of view. For example, the chapter where Sophie builds the house of
cards flip-flops back and forth between Sophie’s perspective and her mother’s.
The ability to see the story from both the adult and the child is quite a unique
way in which to view the actions within the book. In life you usually only see
things from your perspective, even if you understand another person’s point
of view you are never in the front row seats for examining their life, and interactions with you, through their thoughts. This style creates a sense of understanding to a depth that is very rarely given within life or literature. Through
this extensive presentation of multiple characters’ thoughts you are able to
look further into the actions and emotions of each individual and get a better
grasp of the story as a whole; which to some extent does bring the story to life
Sophie’s House of Cards is a compelling piece of literature with a unique
style and format. The structure of the story brings the concept of the house of
cards throughout the entire book, connecting every bit of the story back to
the title – which is a nice surprise. With every chapter you will become more
engaged in the story and find yourself comparing your own journey to this intriguing expression of family life. The way in which this story is written, along
with the fascinating characters, really makes you think. And what is literature
supposed to do if not make you think? Though it may not make you think
in the usual sense of curiosity and mystery that so many of us have become
accustomed to, it is a fresh way of thinking that broadens your perspective
and understanding of the interpersonal relationships between mothers and
daughters, which can be a positive outcome and a good tool to take with you
on your own journeys. Overall, this book has a strength in it, brought through
by the realism and extent of teenage life and family.
Works Cited Page
Payne-Towler, Christine. 2013. History of Tarot. April 7th, 2015. Web.
http://www.tarot.com/tarot/christine-payne-towler/history-of-tarot
Special Collections. 2011. Mother-Daughter Relationships in
Contemporary Fiction. April 10th, 2015. Web.
http://www.lib.udel.edu/ud/spec/exhibits/contemporaryfiction/index.html
Warner, Sharon Oard. 2014. Sophie’s House of Cards.
University of New Mexico Press. Albuquerque, NM. Print.
http://www.crystalinks.com/tarot.html
as you read it. However, this style is in part to blame for the lack of overall
mystery between the two of them. The style of this book can be compared to
the format of a movie, crosscutting between the characters so you understand
the bigger picture. This style can be interesting, but it also takes away from
the natural curiosity of the reader, since there is little for you to wonder about
because you are being informed up front about both sides of the story.
PGR 252
http://imgkid.com/tarotcards-the-empress.shtml
PGR 253
The Misconstruing Ideas of
Feminism: How Wonder Woman’s
Comics Exemplify Issues of Inequality
By: Clarisa Chisum
Noah Berlastsky’s Wonder Woman
Rutgers University Press
Have you ever felt inferior, degraded, or oppressed against? There is
now a movement sweeping across the nation attempting to stop the oppression against all people, and it is called feminism. Feminism sounds like feminine and this causes people to believe that feminism is all about women, when
in fact, it is the social, political, and economic equality of all persons. Noah
Berlatsky dissects the comics of Wonder Woman, current sources that relate to
the comics, and various other topics surrounding the issues in his book Wonder Woman. Although the book begins with a poor use of vocabulary and his
points are not clearly stated in the introduction, his book continues on to bring
up topics of importance. His first chapter is about bondage and how Wonder
Woman is constantly tied up, and how that creates a message of dominance
and submission. His second chapter discusses violence and how that effects
men and women. His third chapter reflects homosexuality and how acceptance differs from person to person. His conclusion finally shows how important Wonder Woman, or all people, are in society. This book contains important
topics surrounding feminism that should be brought up to all people because
the misunderstandings only make equality harder to obtain. Feminism is a
movement for freedom, compassion, choice, respect, solidarity, equality, and
education. If we all treat each other as equals, with respect and compassion,
we can transform the world to a place we all feel safe and free.
Society has developed different standards for men and women
based on the difference in our genetics. In “Wonder Woman,” an example of
standard differences are shown through a series of bondage experiences that
Wonder Woman encounters. Bondage represents being trapped, as women often feel. Noah Berlastky states, “Before you are free, you are not free… there is
no way to imagine liberating yourself from bondage without imagining bondage, with all its connotations. Wonder Woman can’t break her chains if she
isn’t tied up in chains in the first place” (Berlatsky 21.) This also brings up the
point that the chains are a metaphor which can apply to a multitude of aspects
in which people can relate to. The bondage represents how one can feel unable
to escape a situation— maybe stuck in an abusive relationship, an unfulfilling
job, or simply in a hopeless time in life. Wonder Woman exhibits her strength
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as she breaks free from
her restraints, and this
symbolism represents the
power feminism creates
where we are all strong
and equal, and we all have
the power to overcome our
obstacles.
Berlatsky
reinforces
Wonder Woman’s independent abilities by including these images from
the original comics. Wonder Woman is shown in
multiple scenes being tied
up, and having to use her
wits to escape. She’s even
shown helping others escape their bondage as well.
Escaping bondage demonstrates the idea of women
often being seen as submissive, and now being seen as strong. Berlatsky’s book
acknowledges these issues in the original Wonder Woman comics, “The comic
not only allows but encourages males—and females too—to take sensual pleasure in women’s disempowerment. If feminism does not mean speaking out
against that, what does it mean?” (20.) For being a comic from the 1900’s, it sure
brings up powerful issues that still occur today. Having it brought up in one
of the most famous comic series really shows how strong the battle to become
equal is. The comic makes Wonder Woman an example of a woman being tied
up, sexualized, and underestimated. She is treated with disrespect, but in the
end she triumphs over wrong-doers and shows the strength we all have inside
us. Wonder Woman represents all people who has ever felt or been
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treated as inferior, and this book brings up the important notion that we are
all equal to one another.
Feminism has seemed to receive an incorrect and misinterpreted reputation. Social media has targeted feminism as a viral topic of interest. There is
a group called “Women Against Feminism” who make ridiculous statements
as to why they don’t need feminism. It is often viewed as a men-hating movement when it really is the opposite. Also, people who have not experiences
oppression are having a hard time agreeing with feminism, but just because
one has not had a first hand experience of being treated unequally, doesn’t
mean other people around the world do not experience it every day. Berlatsky
addresses “these themes matter to women, not because they don’t understand
their own lives but because they do. And perhaps Wonder Woman mattered to
the girls who read it (and to boys) not just because it showed liberation but because it showed disempowerment— a state of being that girls (and boys) often
understand all too well” (Berlatsky 23.) The goal is to stop the unjust treatment
of women and men so that we may live in harmony. Feminism is about coming
together as people, and not discriminating against anyone.
Equality of the sexes is a movement that is fairly difficult to accomplish.
like a performance when, for the first time in your life, you finally feel
safe and empowered enough to express yourself in ways that resonate
with you, rather than remaining closeted for the benefit of others.
We all have different traits that differ us from one another, but the world
would be a better place when we stop discriminating each other because of
our differences. There are people that are straight, gay, bisexual, transgender,
other, and all of whom deserve to be treated as equals. Unfortunately, treated
each other equally is harder to accomplish than it sounds. Every single person
on this world contributes to society, and it takes every single one of us to make
a real difference. It takes everyone’s participation to create a world where everyone is equal, and the fact that feminism is being misinterpreted and rejected proves that inequality is a problem. Feminism’s goal is to create a society
where all is accepted and welcomed.
Feminism is a movement that is attempting to change the world. This
fact is scaring people that aren’t ready for change. It is unfortunate that feminism is being given a bad and misunderstood reputation for only focusing on
women and “hating men” when the ultimate goal is to simply bring all people together to live respectfully as equals. It’s taken a long time for women to
receive their rights beside men and now that we have come so far, it’s time to
embrace feminism and have men and women be equal. Misinterpreting the
message that feminism portrays only makes equality more difficult to achieve.
Noah Berlatsky’s book uses Wonder Woman’s comics as an example of anyone
who has ever felt inferior or scared, and shows how it is possible to overcome
your battles. This book uses Wonder Woman as a tool that acknowledges issues of importance, and it emphasizes the impact these issues have on all of us.
We all have our own problems and we all can relate to each other at that level.
Wonder Woman faces her battles when she is not taken seriously for being a
woman, but she proves herself many times with all the villains she defeats.
We all have the capability to overcome anything we put our minds to, so we
should all come together to create a world where we are all treated with equal
respect and compassion.
Julia Sereno’s “Performance Piece” is an essay which acknowledges all the different ways people identify themselves, the struggle of fitting in to society
while also being true to oneself, and how important acceptance is,
Instead of trying to fictionalize gender, let’s talk about all the moments
in life when gender feels all too real. Because gender doesn’t feel like
drag when you’re a young trans child begging your parents not to cut
your hair or not to force you to wear that dress. And gender doesn’t feel
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Works Cited
Berlatsky, Noah. Wonder Woman: Bondage and Feminism in the Marston/Peter Comics, 1941-1948. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, n.d. Print.
Serano, Julia. “Performance Piece.” The Gay Utopia. December 2007.
Web. 12 Apr. 2015. <http://gayutopia.blogspot.com/2007/12/julia-serano-performance-piece.html>.
Shire, Emily. “You Don’t Hate Feminism, You Just Don’t Understand
It.” The Daily Beast. Newsweek/Daily Beast, 24 July 2014. Web. 12 Apr. 2015.
<http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/07/24/you-don-t-hate-feminism-you-just-don-t-understand-it.html>.
“Women Against Feminism.” Women Against Feminism. N.p., n.d.
Web. 12 Apr. 2015. <http://womenagainstfeminism.com/>.
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From If The Tabloids
Are True What Are You?
Matthea Harvey
Graywolf Press 2014
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Bicentennial: A Parenting &
Poetry Lesson
By Amber Ow
Bicentennial
Dan Chiasson
2014
$26.95
“It struck me as so iconic for boyhood and adolescence, ordering pizza. It’s
weirdly patriotic” elaborates Dan Chiasson on the pizza slice cover art of his
new book Bicentennial (Fleischer). Chiasson’s upbringing has something more
than just consuming pizza in common with 24 million children in America,
and this is an absent father (Father). Chiasson’s father abandoned he and his
mother when Chiasson was only seven months old. Chiasson’s absent father’s
death inspired Bicentennial, which is a recollection of his fatherless childhood
through poetry. This book illustrates the effects of an absent parent, illuminates Chiasson’s hopes that he is a good father to his boys, and serves as a
piece of evidence in the ever building case of the so called “absent father crisis”, and does so with a flawless and intricate format and structure.
Chiasson uses allegories to show the emotional damage his father has left
him with. Chiasson’s tone changes from poem to poem, but commonly consists of nostalgia, sarcasm, anger, and irony. What also changed throughout
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the poems were his levels of attachment, we can see this is poems such as
“One on One”, “It is the nature of this game to want possession / Then to want
to give it up / To get it back so you can give it up again” (8). In some poems he
appeared very emotionally attached to the idea of life with a father, in others
he appears very detached from this. The reader can see Chiasson’s mixed emotions in this selection from his poem “Away We Go”, “He died, and what I felt,
pea pod, / Projection, tired device, was shy: / Surely you can identify, flight
risk” (4). Chiasson felt little when his father passed, but then admits that this
may just be the product of our primal fight or flight instincts; he flees from his
true emotions. As humans, but especially when growing up, we crave affection, attention, and love, all things Chiasson’s father never provided for him.
His poetry and accomplishments prove that he did just fine without his father,
but the reader can see Chiasson’s pain and disappointment in the lack of love,
attention, and presence of his late father. Lines such as
The point is to stick around on the slender chance
A person’s son turns into a canonical writer.
The point is not to shiver on the horizon
And correct an Inuit’s prepositions.
I was tiny to you, like all things far away.
But you were tiny too, and plus, you were cold.
You look like a bumblebee in your tiny snowsuit. (12)
show Chiasson’s bitterness towards his father choosing a missionary life
style to raising him and sticking around to see who he would become. Bicentennial allows readers to see Chiasson’s unsure and mixed emotions about this
monumental death in his life.
Bicentennial not only focuses on Chiasson and his father’s relationship,
it also uncovers concerns about Chiasson’s own parenting to his children. Brian Burnham, counselor and care coordinator, discusses the many aspects of
the way men respond to their father’s death in the article “Losing Dad: How A
Man Responds to the Death of His Father”. Within this article Burnham elaborates that “for men whose fathers were absent or abusive, the idea of taking
up their father’s mantle is sometimes frightening. These sons have no desire to
fill the same dysfunctional role as their father and feel an intense pressure to
break the painful cycles that their father had embodied”. This is exactly what
Chiasson voices in poems where he plays with formatting and creates a kind
of cycle. A section of poems titled “Arm in Arm” begins with
I am my father’s son
I am my father’s
Son I am
My father’s son
I am (47)
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and ends with...
I am my son’s father
I am my son’s
Father I am
My son’s father
I am (50).
This expresses Chiasson’s fears of repeating the negative parenting cycle.
For sons who are also fathers, “examining the legacy also comes with the realization that they too are a link in this chain, that someday they will be passing
the legacy on to their own children. Many men are inspired by this to forge
stronger relationships with their children so that the legacy they leave is one
that their children can be proud of when it is their turn to mourn their father”
(Burnham).
Despite Chiasson’s apparent emotional damage and absent father, he has
done very well for himself. Graduating from Harvard, teaching at prestigious
colleges, winning numerous awards, not to mention starting a family of his
own, which is no walk in the park. Many others who were abandoned by their
fathers as children were not so lucky. The National Father Initiative has declared a “father absence crisis”, they explain that “many people are surprised
at the research which shows a connection between father absence and an increase in social problems in America including: poverty, teen pregnancy, juvenile delinquency, physical abuse, suicide, substance and alcohol abuse and
a host of other troubling social problems.” Chiasson found a way to manage
and handle his feelings in a constructive way, unfortunately many people try
to control and handle their emotions in deconstructive ways. Through Bicentennial, Chiasson was able to show the world a first hand account of life with
an absent father and the mental and emotional effects. This book of poems is a
paradigm of what can be done with mixed, hurt, and angry emotions. Success
is the best revenge.
See You Again
by Darren Dai
Some Nights No Cars At All
Josh Rathkamp
Ausable Press
2007 $14.00
In modern society, we are building relationships with a variety of
groups of people, such as family, friends, and colleagues. We have to deal with
all of these relationships and treat them in well organization. After reading the
book: Some Nights No Cars At All, I feel like most of the poems were talking
about personal emotions, such as, couples, families and so on. I chose one typical poem, this is my favorite poem so far, and I found the deep meaning which
the author was trying to say behind the words. This poem is called Sleep. As
the poem states: It finished but never left/ It was a relative in the bedroom/
between the bathroom and kitchen/ The first noise is nothing a toilet seat/
smashing down, water filling the pipes, a cat at the door/ But, in the yard,
the wind, the last performer/ gathers around like a group of boys/ until it
becomes no more than what it is/ a dance, falling pinecones, blown stone. The
author was trying to point out that one of his close persons has passed away
and he had the trouble about moving on since there were a plenty of precious
memories which were shaking his brain. Most of us had that kind of feeling
in mind, and that its hard to get over difficult memories of losing someone
special.
Works Cited
Burnham, Brian. “Losing Dad: How a Man Responds to the Death of His
Father.” The Art of Manliness. 8 June 2010. Web. 29 Apr. 2015.
Chiasson, Dan. Bicentennial. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2014. Print.
“Father Facts.” National Fatherhood Initiative. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
Fleischer, Victoria. “Weekly Poem: Dan Chiasson and his poetry time machine.” PBS KQED News hour. 26 May 2014. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
“Why Fatherhood Matters.” National Fatherhood Initiative. Web. 27 Apr. 2015.
To begin with, someone did pass away, however, it does not mean that
their relationship ended soon and it will never end. As the author described in
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his poem, “It finished but never left. It was a relative in the bedroom between the bathroom and kitchen.” The title, “Sleep” was used by the author
as a metaphor of people who passed away. It was a relative in the bedroom
between the bathroom and kitchen meaning that the person who passed away
still has a relationship with the author that was not defined explicitly. “Death
is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while
we live.” As we all know, for the people who are really important to us, even
though they passed away, we still consider them alive in our hearts and still
a crucial part of us. I am a Chinese student and my country fought an 8 year
war against Japan in history. We still remember and mourn those soldiers who
sacrificed themselves in order to make our country independent by setting up
monuments in different places. It is a very convenient way for people to remember the history and show our respects to those martyrs. Their spirit never
disappeared and they will always remain heroes in our minds forever.
In addition, the writer mentioned that “The first noise is nothing-a
toilet seat smashing down, water filling the pipes, a cat at the door.” The author vividly described where the main character used to hang out before and
the voices that related to that special missed person, recalling back memories
between him and that special loved person makes him feel both disappointed and delighted. This person does not have to be dead, it could be someone
who was really close but left. I had a really close friend in China, and we were
studying in the same school since our junior high school. I went to America
after I graduated from senior high school, however, he did not choose to study
abroad. Thus, we drifted apart after that since we got time difference, we are
making more friends in different occasions and we are raising our own habits. However, every time I heard someone’s voice that was familiar with his,
I would look and turn round to see who is talking. I know I missed him a lot
but I would not push him to study abroad as I did, especially since we have
different goals and desires to achieve. In the meanwhile, I enjoy the moment
recalling him from my memories and remembering all the great moments we
experienced.
Moreover, I think everyone encountered the feeling of missing someone
close, searching for that person in life after the loss, is the most challenging fact
to realize that you cannot get replies from that person any longer. A person
might break up with his or her couple because they feel regretful, you will try
to apologize and get them back. Nevertheless, an apology does not work for
all situations, sometimes it will not work. In addition, most people feel anxious
and stressed since there are numerous reasons leaning toward asking for that
person back in your personal life while realizing that is just a self reflection
mechanism demanding that person’s presence. As the author said that “But,
in the yard, the wind, that last performer, gathers around like a group boys”.
From his words, the reader can easily imply that he lived many memories with
a special person, as he recalls back to memory as he cannot handle such situations. As I mentioned in my previous paper, my grandmother passed away last
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summer and for me, this was one of the strongest shocks for me within
my 20 years of age. I could not eat nor sleep for one month, I just cannot
get over the fact and it was so hard for me to move on. I definitely know
that feeling and I feel sympathetic with the author.
Finally, in three words I can sum up everything I have learned
about life and they are: it goes on. “Until it becomes no more than what it
is--a dance, falling pinecones, blown stone.” Time keeps passing, the earth
keeps rotating and a person still grows. We have to move on and handle
the sadness. I watch the Fast and Furious 7 at the first day it came out because it had always been my favorite series. I cried at the end of the movie,
as the world knows, one of the main characters Paul Walker, passed away
in a horrific car accident. In the last ten minutes of the movie, a tribute was
directed for Walker and it did indeed win everyone’s respect. It touched
me and my friends a lot, and this movie became one of the most frequent
topics now on all social media websites. “Do not you want to say goodbye
to me? I just cannot…” this was the final dialogue between Vin Disel and
Paul Walker. After that, they drove into different ways and I wish they
could meet each other again in the future! Brothers are brothers, wherever
you are, and whenever you need me, I will be your side. What Paul Walker
left are these perfect movies and his respectful qualities. We will never
forget that and we will see him in a better place for sure!
“It is being a long day without you my friend,
And I will tell you all about it when I see you again.
We have come a long way from where we began,
Oh I will tell you all about it when I see you again!”
Finally, this is one of the songs that came with the movie and it
is my favorite song, as well. Honestly, I always have the faith about the
people who play a major part in my life, whether they passed away, left
me or not, I will give them all my best wishes. Because we used to have
good moments and that is enough for me. I do not ask for too much, all I
remember is that we had great memories in the past; even though I never
know when or where I will meet them again; however I know for sure that
I will them again in a better place.
Works Cited
Norman, Cousins. “Moving on Quotes.” Brainyquote. Web. 15
Apr. 2015. <http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/n/normancous121747.html>
Furious Seven. Dir. Justin Lin. Perf. Vin Diesel and Paul Walker. Universal Studios, 2015. Film.
Khalifa, Wiz, and Charlie Puth. See You Again. DJ Frank E, Charlie
Puth, Andrew Cedar,
2015. MP3.
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ALIENS, MERMAIDS, TALKING
ANIMALS, OH MY!:
Questioning Social Constructs
By Summer Wallen
If The Tabloids Are True What Are You?
Matthea Harvey
Graywolf Press 2014, $25.00
Our world is strange,
if you stop and think
about it. We have cheese
that sprays from an aerosol can, we pay people to
change our appearance
to look a certain “acceptable” way, and why in the
world do we get goose
bumps? Strange things are
all around us, but we have
just accepted them as common. Harvey pushes us to
the edge of our comfort
zone to ask why we even
have a “comfort zone.” in
this collection of poems
and prose. Social norms
of our world today make us
believe things are abnormal, when in reality they
are what makes the puzzle
of society fit together. It is
strange and abnormal, but
that’s the beauty of it. Yes,
things are strange and not
what we are used to; But
breaking these boundaries
is rewarding, exciting, and
euphoric. So then I must ask, what is the point of being normal anyways if there never
really is a definition of normal? If The Tabloids Are True What Are You, points out the
flaws in our society, by demonstrating how the
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strange things in this world are only strange because we make them out to be so. Harvey broke the normal rules and invented her own. “Strange things only,” I can
imagine, was one of her regulations. The logic behind the writing and the pictures
were to shock the readers, making them think and hear about things not in our usual repertoire. She made the unfamiliar familiar and relatable in the poem, “Woman
Lives in House Made of People:”
They were lonely, I was alone.
Out of those two sentences
I made myself a home. My house right,
has a hundred heartbeats, dimpled
Cupboards and a pink mouth for a mailbox.
There’s always a tangle of legs in my bed.
O the walls have eyes, the baseboards
have toes. The decorative molding (rows of noses)
twitches and sniffles, and at the end
of the sad movie, the tears on my face
are not my own. Bot not the outside
feels all wrong-trees not breathing,
sidewalks unspeckled by a single freckle,
and blazing over everything, a faceless sun.
(pg. 43)
This poem takes normal everyday things
like our home, sidewalks and bodies---then
whips our brains into mush as we try and
grasp the idea of a house made of human
bodies. The disconnected sentences broken up by stanzas show the disconnect the
main character feels with society, other humans, and the outside world. “They were
lonely, I was alone”, Harvey writes, “I made
myself a home”. They were lonely, this enticing line reveals that there are others like
her. She is not lonely because others are
lonely too. She is at home in her strangeness, and so is the author in relation to her
writing. If we take a step back from life and
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gain new perspective, as Harvey shows us, these earthly things begin to
seem very strange. In looking at our world from the outside in, everything
seems strange. These “odd topics” of aliens, mermaids, and human houses
should not seem so strange anymore, rather just another reality of our society. They are only strange to us because they are not the things we see everyday. To us it is just a
TV, but to an outsider,
“what is this strange
blue box with people
and things trapped
inside?!” This is a
reflection of society and humans as
a whole; we are so
stuck in our normal
routine and shocked
with
anything
new. Our ethnocentric ways of looking
at each other’s cultures also applies to our world as a whole. The word ethnocentric defines an idea
that the world embodies but is never directly spoken about. Merriam-Webster defines
ethnocentrism as “having or based on the idea that your own group or culture is better
or more important than others”. We are ethnocentric in this world. Always believing
that our way is the best, our food is the best, and our religion is the best. It’s how it has
always been, and I hate to break it to you social activists, but its probably always going
to be that way. But even through all the cultural diversity, why can’t we learn how to
at least accept and understand others? Why not aliens? Why not houses made of humans? We are so stuck in our comfort zones of what we know and how we think, that
anything far off of what we know is obscure in the wrong ways. This book attempts
to change a person’s perspective. With all the different and alarming topics constant
throughout the book, by the end, something strange does not seem as odd as it did
before. The process of reading this book opens our brains to the unnerving creativity
of this world’s potential, and helps us to be more accepting of the unfamiliar. Social
norms make us think in a certain way. If we reveal them like Harvey does throughout
this book, society could quite possibly function like a well-oiled machine.
As a girl growing up in the 21st century, feminism is all the rage. “It took
activists and reformers nearly 100 years to win that right, and the campaign was not
easy” (History Channel 2009). The fact that women had to argue, prove, and persuade other members of their own race to let them have a say in situations that directly
affected them perfectly shows the unfair rules placed on women from the very beginning. A major section of gender discrimination may have legally ended in 1920, but
socially it seems to be a never-ending battle. The opening of the book explores these
double standards and gender labels/discrimination patterns through the stories
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of multiple mermaids character traits. One of which, The Inside Out Mermaid, is a
satirical look on women in relationships. The Inside Out Mermaid is fine with letting it all
hang out---veins, muscles, the bits of fat at her belly, her small gray spleen. At first her lover loves it--with her organs on the outside, she’s the ultimate
open book. He can pump her lungs like two bellows and make her gasp; ask her difficult questions
and study the synapses firing in her brain as she
answers to see if she’s lying; poke a pleasure center in the frontal lobe and watch her squirm. Want
to tug on her heartstrings? No need for bouquets
or sad stories about his childhood. He just plucks
a pulmonary vein and watches the left ventricle
flounder. But before long, she starts to sense that
her lover, like all the others before him, is getting
restless. This is when she starts showing them her
collections---the basket of keys from all over the
world, the box of zippers with teeth of every imaginable size---all chosen to convey a sense of openness. As a last resort, she’ll
even read out loud the entries from her diary about him to him. But eventually he’ll become convinced she’s hiding things from him and she is. Her perfect
skin. Her long black hair. Her red mouth, never chapped from exposure to
the sun on wind, how she secretly loves that he can’t touch her here or here. (7)
I would just like to apologize on behalf of all
women. I am so sorry that women are too open,
that we care too much, and that we at least try to
love others. Really, I truly am sorry for these perfectly normal acts of love; if they have ever caused
you any harm I will personally take all responsibility. Anyways, Harvey is pointing out the fact
that it is absurd that women are ridiculed for things
this story, and all the other mermaid stories, points
out. These double standards that are “justified” because of made up biological reasoning are not only
disrespectful, but also completely incorrect. Too
emotional? I’m sorry, did you tell your mother that
she was too emotional when she was literally creating you inside of her body? I’m sorry; I need to take
a moment to calm down I’m getting too emotional
about this whole thing.
If I were looking into this world from the outside,
like an alien, the things most abnormal would catch
your eye the most. However with the pressure to
conform and need to fit in causes probably some
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where around 90% of humans to fade into the oblivion. Those 10% would be
the dreamers. Using A Hula Hoop Can Get You Abducted By Aliens
so its the dreamy ones
who want to go somewhere they don’t know
how to get to that interest us, the ones
who stare all day at a blank piece of paper or
square of canvas, then peer searchingly into
their herbal tea
(pg. 33)
These “dreamy ones” are the
ones with no belief in social
norms. They don’t let anyone tell
them what to do, or how to do
it. These are the rare breed. The
ones who recognize how strange
and twisted the world is but then
find their place within it. Strangeness and abnormality create the balance between all forces, strange or
normal. Scratch that, all things are
created equal so should be looked
at with a clean slate. According to
a poll done by the Huffington Post,
about half of the American population believes in aliens. My question then, is if HALF of people in
our nation believe in them, why
are they not a more “normal” part
of society? All things, big, small,
tall, fat, sticky, smooth, should be
looked at in a culturally relative way. Things only seem strange when you are not used to them, which is why we
look at abnormal people with a negative attitude. In reality, we could be the
weird ones and they could be normal just as easily. Social constructs both make
and break our world and no one can be quite sure whether or not we could function without them. They make society flow and function in ways we can’t quite
put a definition on. However, knowing they are real and accepting them as reality
is not only important but an enlightening thing to leading a better life. So I say,
break social norms. Talk to yourself all the time, become a mountain hermit, and
eat as much spray cheese as your body can handle. Because even if the tabloids
are true, why does it matter anyways?
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Prejudice Thrives
by Jonathan Spooner
Critique of Citizen: An American Lyric
By Claudia Rankkine
“You are reminded of a conversation you had recently, comparing the
merits of sentences constructed implicitly with “yes, and” rather than “yes,
but.” You and your friend decided that “yes, and” attested to a life with no
turn-off, no alternative routes” (8). Racism is alive and well, no matter how
subtle, in our “post-racial” society, and the aforementioned “life with no turnoff” is the life of any black citizen in the fundamentally white America. Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric shines in sharing the perspectives
and experiences of black citizens in American society. These perspectives
shed light on racial aggression, the archetypal generalization of black citizens,
and what goes on in the mind of the speaker reacting to these racial injustices.
In order to abolish the injustices exhibited in this modern “Strange Fruit,” we
must tear at the root of racial preconception.
Early on, Rankine gives examples of people fearing their fellow black
citizens:
Because of your elite status from a year’s worth of travel, you have already
settled into your window seat on United Airlines, when the girl and her mother arrive at your row. The girl, looking over at you, tells her mother, these are
our seats, but this is not what I expected. The mother’s response is barely audible—I see, she says. I’ll sit in the middle. (12)
I know parents want to keep their children safe, but this mother does not let
her daughter sit next to a black person because of prejudicial fear. This fear is
reflected via multiple passages in the text. A black friend picks up a couple’s
child and the neighbor calls the couple:
He is standing at his window watching a menacing black guy casing both
your homes. The guy is walking back and forth talking to himself and seems
disturbed.
You tell your neighbor that your friend, whom he has met, is babysitting.
He says, no, it’s not him. He’s met your friend and this isn’t that nice young
man. Anyway, he wants you to know, he’s called the police. (15)
Another instance of this racial profiling is shown in the story about a black
person who has an appointment with a trauma-counseling therapist. After
ringing the doorbell, the therapist opens the door and yells, “Get away from
my house! What are you doing in my yard?” (18). Rankine’s repetition of these
black-fear instances reflects how commonly they happen in American society.
In these particular examples, she leaves the feeling of the racially victimized
up to interpretation, although it is simple to see these people are being mistreated. This type of racial profiling is regular in our American society and is
unacceptable.
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There are a myriad of other direct and “indirect” discriminatory instances in this book. Rankine puts the reader into the discriminatory crossfire
by utilizing the word “you,” as if the reader were the target of all of this social
racism. A young Catholic schoolgirl says to you, “You smell good and have
features more like a white person” (5). A close friend calls you the name of
her housekeeper (7). An employer “tells you his dean is making him hire a
person of color when there are so many great writers out there” (10). A manager you’ve spoken with on the phone sees you in person for the first time and
blurts out, “I didn’t know you were black!” (44). “A friend sees a photograph
of you on the Internet and he wants to know why you look so angry. You and
the photographer chose the photograph he refers to because you both decided
it looked the most relaxed” (46). “The man at the cash register wants to know
if you think your card will work” (54). You overhear a man say to another, “being around black people is like watching a foreign film without translation,”
just before you’re going to have a conference with them (50). Any reader who
hasn’t experienced racial discrimination will undoubtedly feel uncomfortable
when these occurrences are directed toward them, and that is one of Rankine’s
primary objectives. This text means to change the way you see the black experience and evoke empathy toward those facing racial injustices.
Artwork is prevalent throughout this text, but one piece in particular
stuck out because it describes the whole form of the book. On page 52, “I do
not always feel colored” is stamped across an entire page in bold lettering. On
page 53, similar text states “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a
sharp white background.”
In its form, the entirety of
this text is printed as minimal black text with loads
of white, blank space.
The experiences depicted
in Citizen are black experiences in a primarily
white-influenced country,
and the form combined
with these two powerful
statements screams that
these experiences are exclusive to people of color.
Years after American Civil Rights Acts have been implemented, racial discrimination towards
blacks no longer exists in law, and you’d hope to believe racism has withered
away; but racism still fundamentally cripples our society’s ability to make all
people truly equal. For example, people of color continually struggle with
equal opportunity in the job market, and this has and continues to further an
undeclared modern American apartheid (.The Declaration of Independence,
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a document our country was built upon, clearly states, “all men are created
equal,” but how can black citizens feel equal when they are constantly ostracized via prejudice?
Rankine’s text is the most important modern piece of literature I’ve read
decisively depicting the bleak times and current stresses of black Americans.
Citizen: An American Lyric can potentially change the way our country approaches those of color by giving an inside look on what it is like to be a black
citizen. Readers should express sympathetic outrage at the experiences addressed in this text, no matter how significant they may seem to any particular reader. Racism is a current problem and “as light as the rain seems, it still
rains down on you” (9).
Works Cited
Margolick, David, and Hilton Als: Strange Fruit. The Biography of a Song,
Ecco. (Paperback, 2001)
Rankine, Claudia. Citizen: An American Lyric. Minneapolis: Graywolf, 2014.
Stangler, Cole. “Black Unemployment: College Degree Offers Advantages,
But No Escape From Racialized Job Markets.” www.ibtimes.com. 27 March
2015. http://www.ibtimes.com/black-unemployment-college-degree-offers-advantages-no-escape-racialized-job-markets-1861838.
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X: Working With a Cliché to Create a
Bestseller
By Evgeny Yakushev
Critique of X
By Ilyasah Shabazz and Kekla Magoon
Published in 2015 by Candlewick Press
$16.99
“Friends tell me trouble’s coming.” This is the first sentence a
reader would see when he opens
“X”, a novel by Ilyasah Shabazz
with Kekla Magoon. The reader is being thrown straight into
action, without even a chance
to consider whether they want
it or not. And this is how the
book catches our attention. You
are standing next to the protagonist, Malcolm X. There is a
certain belief that the first page
of the book is crucial for its
success. In case of the “X”, the
whole prologue is written in the
way that the reader will be unwilling to stop reading from the
first line of the novel to the very
last one. The authors provide
us with story of a black activist
standing for civil rights in an
exciting and thrilling manner,
which keeps the reader interested throughout the entire book.
As a result, the novel appears to be worth a time to read and definitely some
lessons to learn.
Speaking about the details of prologue, it is very important to highlight the
structure of the sentences there. They are short and mostly simple. They allow
the reader to synchronize the rhythm of reading the novel with the rhythm
of beating of his heart. They allow breathing as fast as the protagonist does,
think as fast as he does, given the trouble he got into. So, in this perspective the
novel becomes very sensitive. In other words, the reader is living the moment
of Malcolm X’s life, when he is in danger. And it doesn’t really matter what the
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such genre, when the plot develops like a hurricane, spontaneously and rapidly, tells me that the reader will find out the truth only after reading the entire
book, collecting facts piece by piece and developing his own theories one after
another.
I think that this is a great style
of writing. To be honest, this is
my favorite genre. It is impossible to put the book down and
take a break – you may feel like
the plot is developing without
you! In fact, my first experience
of this genre comes back to 2010,
when I read the postapocalyptic novel “Metro 2033” written
by a Russian author Dmitry
Gluhovsky. Even though the plot
and everything else is entirely
different, the style of writing in
“X” reminded me of Gluhovsky’s
“Metro 2033”. Both these novels
create a specific atmosphere of
intrigue and tense, which practically forces the reader to read the
book from the very beginning to
the very end as soon as possible,
because it is hard to deal with
this pressure, it needs to be resolved by finding all answers to
all questions that were brought
in the beginning.
Specifically with “X”, it appears to be a cliché of a genre: after a very interesting prologue we are being thrown back in time. Same structure was in
Gluhovsky’s Metro 2033. Even thought the reader is desperate about knowing
what’s going to happen next, and it is really annoying to read and wait to get
back into action. Anyway, after prologue the novel throws the reader back to
Malcolm’s childhood, and then starts to describe his struggles as a child for
an insanely long next few chapters. Well, there is no doubt that his childhood
is crucial for understanding of his character, but it could be definitely more
interesting with faster developing plot. For instance, the scene of Malcolm’s
leaving from the hometown is described in three pages. Realistically speaking,
the authors sometimes write too slowly in terms of plot development, which
kills that atmosphere of tense and makes the novel boring in parts. The story
appears to be a relatively typical: a black kid getting out of his town, tastes life
and turns to criminal and drugs eventually. After spending time in prison he
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gets out and becomes a civil rights activist, for which he became famous
after his death in 1965. However, it is exciting how the authors, one of whom is
Malcolm’s daughter, manage to create a fictional story of Malcolm’s youth yet
keep it close to the historical truth, as I learned from Malcolm X’s biography.
I haven’t yet finished reading the book myself, but I still have strong faith
that after that moment of struggle in Malcolm’s childhood and youth, which
appears to be too long to be called a moment, in my opinion, the book will just
burst with the action, taking the reader into the whirlpool of events. I expect
it to be as exciting as prologue was and show the atmosphere of tense, which I
once experienced while reading “Metro 2033”.
I could no possibly avoid mentioning the cover of the book. The actual
title, “X”, appears to be more of a background, which divides the town on
back-background into two parts. The meaning of this symbol is still to found
further into the novel. On the foreground a man is running from one side of
town to another. Does it have connections with Malcolm’s past and present
or future? Or maybe he is relocating himself because he has to run? Because
“trouble’s coming”? As an alternative, the front cover may suggest that Malcolm as a travelling musician, just like those Town Musicians of Bremen, especially taking into account the fact Malcolm is playing jazz. Actually, that
was the first answer Google gave me for the search: “symbol of man running
from one town to another”. Anyway, as it looks to me, the front cover is full
of symbols, and the meanings are hidden somewhere in the text of the novel.
Let’s look for them!
Certainly, the book is to the reader’s taste. I personally love this genre and
I do recommend people to read it. At least, give it a shot. You will definitely
realize whether it’s yours or not by the end of prologue. “X” can be identified
as a thriller and a detective, mixing with drama and probably some action.
However, it’s not that kind of stupid detective novels that can be bought in any
tabloid newsstand. It’s actually quite the opposite – this novel claims to be one
of the best of its genre in the recent years. Even though I may sound a little
biased toward the novel, I interpret it as my own credit for it. Hopefully, it will
meet my expectations by the time I will turn to the last page of the novel, so it
will satisfy you, dear Reader.
Works Cited
“Malcolm X Biography” Bio. Web. 29 Apr 2015
“Metro 2033 by Dmitry Gluhovsky”. GoodReads. Web. 18 Apr 2015
Shabazz,Ilyasah and Kekla Magoon “X” Someville: Candlewick press, 2015.
Print
“Town Musicians of Bremen”. Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 19
Apr 2015
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The Attractive, Immortal Asshole: Bad
Boyfriends in Young Adult Novels
By Taylor Sandusky
Cathy’s Book
By Jordan Weisman and Sean Stewart
(illustrated by Cathy Brigg)
Published in 2006
Running Press Kids
$17.95
I’m going to be honest, I started reading Cathy’s Book because I thought it
would be bad. The letter to Emma from
Cathy on the back, the collection of
“clues” in the front, the sketches, the
first page and its list of Cathy’s misfortunes: all of that seemed like too much.
“This book is trying too hard,” I thought
to myself. “This book is trying to hide
its mediocrity with cute drawings, fake
birth certificates, and a relatable snarky
protagonist.” And I was right: this book
isn’t great. Ignoring the romance, Cathy’s
Book is entertaining and good, mostly.
It’s not perfect; the ending is weird, the immortal plot twist is obvious, and
there are a lot of dropped plot lines, which I’m assuming are supposed to be
cliffhangers since this is a trilogy. However, Cathy is an engaging protagonist;
the use of Chinese mythology and diverse characters makes this book stand
out from the seemingly infinite hoard of books about white people and Western mythology; there are a few instances of well written surreal description;
and the clues, drawings, and the journal style work together to make the book
better. And then there’s the “romance.” Cathy is in love with Victor, who is
one of the young adult (YA) genre’s many rude, condescending, creepy, supernatural boyfriends. Victor is by no means the worst—not even close—but he’s
part of a trend that romanticizes toxic, abusive relationships and perpetuates
rape culture, or the way our society makes fun of, excuses, normalizes, and
ignores sexual assault (Ridgway). Since YA and Cathy’s Book are aimed at anyone twelve and up (“Cathy’s Book (Cathy Vickers Trilogy, #1);” Mayer), they’re
teaching teenagers that abuse is attractive and that boys ignoring what girls
say is romantic.
Cathy’s Book starts right after Victor breaks up with Cathy because he’s afraid
of falling in love with her. (They get back together at the end; don’t worry.) At
first I was willing to believe Cathy and Victor were deeply in love before the
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breakup, but then Cathy tells the story of how they met:
“You got the wings wrong.”
I looked up. Good-looking jerk leaning over my shoulder, scoping out
my sketch. “Get lost.” I said.
“Head’s okay, I guess.”
“Glad you approve. Get lost.”
“Victor Chan,” he said. He stuck out his hand…
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Victor Chan. Go away.”
“A real artist has to know how to take criticism,” he said.
“I’m not a real artist. I’m just a sulky wannabe.” I smiled and gave him
a well-known finger gesture. “Bye-bye, Victor Chan.”
He laughed and bent down beside my shoulder, studying my sketch, a
little closer than necessary…
He grinned. “Draw me.”
“I don’t think so[…]”
I have a good Scornful Stare™—cold, distant, belittling…I tried it on
him.
He laughed. “Draw me. I’ll pay you what the picture’s worth.”
“I don’t want to.” I felt out of my element. He must have been only four
or five years older than the guys at my high school, but it felt like a big
difference. “Hey, jerk. No Means No.” I stuffed my sketch book into my
leather case. Stood up and checked my pockets for bus fare…
“Okay, so you’re not ready,” Victor said. “Keep writing only in your diary and showing your pictures only to your best friend, then.”
“Screw you!” I glared at him. “How much will you pay for that drawing?”
“Depends on what it’s worth.”
I pulled the sketch book back out of my case and grabbed a pen. “Sit up
on the wall there.”
He grinned. “Oh, I see. You’re one of those girls that needs to get mad
before she—”
“Shut up!”
He shut up.
I drew. (Stewart, Weisman 7-10)
Ah, young love. In this exchange, Cathy tells Victor to go away four times. She
flips him off, calls him a jerk, and tries to leave. Victor, meanwhile, stands too
close, ignores what she wants, insults her, and doesn’t take no for an answer.
Victor is a creepy jerk, and by writing him this way, the authors support (I
hope unintentionally) rape culture, which looks like this: Almost one in five
American women have been victims of rape or attempted rape (Rabin), only
three percent of rapists will ever go to prison (“97 of Every 100 Rapists Receive
No Punishment, RAINN Analysis Shows”), and when women say no to men
they’re beaten and/or killed (gordoananke). Rape culture is blaming the victim because of what they were wearing or how they acted, making rape jokes,
and saying “boys will be boys” while refusing to address why boys act
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the way they do. Rape culture is publishing books where the love interest—
the supposedly perfect boyfriend—pins the protagonist to the bed while she
struggles (Fitzpatrick 300), where he admits to stalking the protagonist and
she feels “a strange surge of pleasure” (Meyer, ch. 8), where the protagonist
explicitly says “No Means No” (Stewart, Weisman 10) and the love interest
ignores her wishes. Rape culture is the idea that boys should keep talking to
girls after they’ve asked to be left alone, that she’s just playing hard to get, that
you should never give up on “true love,” that no doesn’t actually mean no, that
all of this is romantic. In addition to that whole mess, Victor is also in his “early
twenties, maybe” (Stewart, Weisman 9) and Cathy is seventeen. I would like to
congratulate the authors for successfully making me dislike the love interest
before the tenth page.
On their first date, Victor takes Cathy to a nice restaurant. Cathy, wanting to
impress him and fit in, had bought a new dress, and then asks him if he likes
it. Victor, because he’s an asshole, replies with:
“It’s a lovely dress[…]It doesn’t suit you very well, but that’s not the
dress’s fault[…]”
“Oh—so you’re a fashion critic, now? Got a lot of back issues of Vogue
lying around the lab?” I said, loudly enough that the couple at the next
table turned to look at us.
Victor shrugged. “Hey, I know enough to know you want to emphasize your best features, rather than…” Our fellow diners watched as he
waved his spoon at my chest—my flat, flushing chest, as highlighted by
the [dress’] open upper bodice. “I mean, you don’t want to draw attention
to what you haven’t got, right?” (Stewart, Weisman 91)
And then I proceeded to stare at the page wondering how there was ever a
second date, let alone two months of dating. Do the authors want me to dislike
Victor? This part of the book says yes, but Cathy and Victor get back together
in the end and confess their love and kiss. The second half of the date is more
romantic and is clearly supposed to make the reader like Victor and Cathy
together, and neither of them ever brings up the dress incident again. Cathy
tells the story of their first date because she misses him and needs to build up
their relationship to explain why she does what she does later in the book; this
is supposed to be a romantic scene. Case in point: after the restaurant, they
go on a walk, have a deep conversation, and almost kiss. Once the moment is
over, Cathy thinks:
In my secret heart, I think I wasn’t the only one in danger of falling in
love.
Cathy, you burn like a candle in the dark.
It’s hard to let go of someone who would say that to you, even once.
(Stewart, Weisman 94)
Remember kids, it’s totally fine if your partner insults and embarrasses you as
long as they sometimes say romantic things too.
Cathy’s Book is part of a long line of YA books with questionable love interPGR 279
that followed the publication of Twilight, Stephanie Meyer’s wildly successful vampire novel, in 2005 (“Twilight (Twilight, #1)”). Now it’s not Stephanie
Meyer’s fault that E.L. James somehow managed to make abusive Twilight fanfiction a profitable, international phenomenon, but 116 million copies of Twilight
sold by the end of 2010 (Seth), proving the brooding, potentially deadly love
interest sells extremely well. Of course, this particular male lead was around
before, but after Twilight YA was—and still is—flooded with rude, dangerous,
mysterious, attractive boys. Edward Cullen, Twilight’s love interest, stalks Bella, Twilight’s protagonist. He breaks into her room and watches her sleep, he
tries to stop her from being friends with Jacob (Meyer), and he threatens to
commit suicide if she leaves him (kar3ning). This is the hero millions of girls
and women (and other people, I would assume, who are just less vocal about
it) want to date. This is the hero that other YA novels tried to copy.
Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick spent over fifty weeks on the New York Times
Bestseller List (“Accolades for Hush, Hush”). Here’s part of KMont’s review:
We all know the basics of the book by now: hot, yet jerky mysterious
guy meets lovely, yet clueless girl who must be with jerky guy and solve
the Mystery of Him…
[T]he typical “twilight era” young adult hero…He’s smart-mouthed,
mysterious, and dangerous, and despite his rather blatantly lacking qualities, he attracts the heroine like a bear to stinking trash…
The bottom line is, Hush, Hush exemplifies yet another young adult
romance with no romance in sight. (KMont)
I had to stop a few times while I was reading this review to make sure KMont
wasn’t actually talking about Cathy’s Book, but Hush, Hush, as it turns out, is
much, much worse. Patch, the love interest, stalks, threatens, and isolates Nora,
the protagonist; he harasses her in class and touches her when she doesn’t
want him to. At one point “he pins her down on the bed, straddles her and
warns her that nobody will come help her if she screams” (Parametric). This is
not okay. This is not romantic, but that’s what it’s being sold as.
In the international bestseller (“Beautiful Disaster”) Beautiful Disaster by Jamie McGuire1, Travis controls what Abby wears, yells at her, beats up guys
who get too close to her, and stalks her (Lucy). After they sleep together for the
Beautiful Disaster is often considered New Adult, which is basically just YA
but with college-age protagonists and more sex, but when it was first published in 2008 the New Adult category didn’t exist and so Beautiful Disaster
was considered YA, which is why I’m including it here. Also, even with its
current status as New Adult, most teen readers like reading about characters
older than them (what)2, so older teenagers are likely to read books that are
categorized as New Adult, especially considering the fact New Adult is so
new and still debated (“New-adult Fiction”).
2
what is the username of someone who discussed the difference between YA
and New Adult on Writers Stack Exchange, not me adding commentary.
1
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first time, Abby leaves while Travis is asleep. When he wakes up and she’s not
there, this happens:
“Travis is a fucking wreck! He won’t talk to us, he’s trashed the apartment, threw the stereo across the room[…]”
I assumed he would be upset with me; I didn’t know he’d fly into a
rage…
“He took a swing at Shep when he found out we helped you leave.
Abby! Please tell me!” [Abby’s friend America] pleaded, her eyes glossing
over. “It’s scaring me[…]”
“It’s something else, Abby. He’s gone fucking nuts! I heard him call
your name, and then he stomped all over the apartment looking for you.
He barged into Shep’s room, demanding to know where you were. Then
he tried to call you. Over, and over and over,” she sighed. “His face was…
Jesus, Abby. I’ve never seen him like that.
“He ripped his sheets off the bed, and threw them away, threw his
pillows away, shattered his mirror with his fist, kicked his door…broke it
from the hinges! It was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” (McGuire, ch. 9)
Abby calls to let Travis know she’s fine and ends up apologizing for
making him worry, which leads to this:
“You’re sorry? I’ve been going crazy! You don’t answer your phone, you
sneak out and, wha—why? I thought we finally had everything figured
out!”
“I just needed some time to think.”
“About what?” he paused.“Did I hurt you?”
“No! It’s nothing like that! I’m really…really sorry.” (McGuire, ch. 9)
So Abby leaves without saying goodbye, Travis literally wrecks his apartment
looking for her and scares everyone around him, and then Abby apologizes.
Travis never says he’s sorry. He blames Abby for making him act like he did;
she was gone, so of course he panicked and punched the mirror. Destroying
property, always needing to know where someone is, and blaming the victim
and making them feel sorry are all abuse tactics (Murphy), but Beautiful Disaster doesn’t address how abusive Travis is. This isn’t the story of a girl escaping
an abusive relationship; it’s a love story. Travis and Abby get married at the
end of the book (McGuire).
In Lauren Kate’s Fallen series, which has sold more than ten million copies
(McClintock), the love interest is a jerk, but attractive and that makes it okay.
The same idea can be found in Alyson Noel’s Evermore (Choco), also a New York
Times bestseller (“Evermore”), and so many other YA novels. All of these very
popular—Fallen, Hush, Hush, and Twilight are all on NPR’s “100 Best-Ever Teen
Novels” list— books tell their readers (mainly young girls) that stalking and
insults and violence and the threat of rape is romantic.
When I was a sophomore in high school I read Hush, Hush, and I liked it. I
thought the romance was nice; Patch was a little annoying but overall a good
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boyfriend. I read a ton of YA books in 2011, and for a few years I thought
the relationships in those books represented what healthy relationships could
look like. Some of them do—not all YA romances are bad, and the bad ones
range from “you deserve someone who supports you more” to “this guy is
probably a murderer please run away”—but in 2011, I believed what all of
these books were telling me, and that’s terrifying. Kilbourne says “teenagers…
find it difficult to resist or even to question the dominant culture messages
perpetuated and reinforced by the media,” so when a large number of books
aimed at preteen and teen girls say romance is Patch and Edward and Victor
and Travis, then those girls will probably start to believe it. As Sophia says,
“they’ve been reading about that ‘hot’ behavior for so long, they’ve been sexualizing it and they’ve been associating it with good looks, and of course, with
the ultimate perfect happy ending.” Each book is “another grain of sand in a
slowly accumulating and vast sandpile” (Kilbourne) telling young readers that
this type of relationship is okay. Add these YA novels to what some movies,
songs, TV shows, and other types of media say about relationships, and the
message gets even stronger. problackgirl says:
when i was younger i thought it was cute that boys chased the girl even
after she said no. i loved it when after a girl moved away from a kiss, the
guy would pull her back and force it on. i thought a guy saying ‘i won’t
take a no for an answer’ was passionate and romantic.
This is what media is telling kids, and as I said before, this is rape culture—
this is boys controlling what girls do and refusing to leave them alone until
they say yes. This romanticizes abuse and toxic relationships, as if love isn’t
real or true without fear and insults and a lack of consent.
The events in Cathy’s Book take place because Cathy thinks Victor might be
a drug dealer and might have drugged her (Again, what a great relationship.)
which does technically mean the plot centers around Victor and their love(?),
but I found myself interested in the story without being invested in the relationship at all. If you ignore (or forget, as I did) the fact Cathy’s doing all of
this for love(?), this book is engaging: Teenage girl wakes up with mysterious
needle-track on arm, panics, breaks into possible-assailant’s house looking for
clues, learns about a murder, etc. So if you can look past the unfortunate “romance” and its various implications, read Cathy’s Book. If you want to use Victor
to teach your kids what characteristics to avoid in a future partner, read Cathy’s
Book. If you’re bored and Cathy’s Book is readily available, read it. If you’re tired
of and/or disgusted by the current romance trends in YA, find something else
to read. Try Sarah J. Mass’ Throne of Glass, Gayle Forman’s Just One Day, Tiffany Truitt’s Chosen Ones, A.S. King’s Ask the Passengers, Maggie Stiefvater’s The
Raven Boys and Shiver, Kristin Cashore’s Graceling, Cynthia Hand’s Unearthly,
Neal Shusterman’s Unwind, Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke & Bone, Tammy
Blackwell’s Destiny Binds, Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor & Park and Fangirl, L.A.
Weatherly’s Angel Burn, Lauren Oliver’s Before I Fall, or Rachel Hawkins’ Hex
Hall. YA isn’t overflowing with happy, supportive couples who communicate
with each other and stories that challenge rape culture, but that doesn’t mean
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there are no decent books to read. Cathy’s Book is okay, but a lot of other books
are better. Read one of those instead.
Works Cited
“97 of Every 100 Rapists Receive No Punishment, RAINN Analysis Shows.”
RAINN | Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network. RAINN, n.d. Web. 19 Apr. 2015.
“Accolades for Hush, Hush.” Becca Fitzpatrick, Young Adult Author. Becca Fitzpatrick, n.d. Web. 12 Apr. 2015.
“Beautiful Disaster.” Jamie McGuire. Jamie McGuire, n.d. Web. 12 Apr. 2015.
Bookshop. “Bad Romance (or, YA & Rape Culture).” LiveJournal, 14 Mar.
2010. Web. 10 Apr. 2015.
“Cathy’s Book (Cathy Vickers Trilogy, #1).” Goodreads. Goodreads Inc, n.d. Web. 10 Apr. 2015.
Choco. “Why Ya Romance Needs to Change.” In Which a Girl Reads. Blogger,
23 Mar. 2010. Web. 10 Apr. 2015.
“Evermore.” Alyson Noel, Author of The Immortals Series. N.p., n.d. Web. 12 Apr. 2015.
Fitzpatrick, Becca. Hush, Hush. New York: Simon & Schuster for Young Readers, 2009.
Gordoananke. Would You Kindly,. Tumblr, 3 Mar. 2015. Web. 19 Apr. 2015. <http://meggannn.tumblr.com/post/112653739510>.
Kar3ning. “What Do You See in Him Again?” Captain’s Log. LiveJournal, 22 Nov. 2009. Web. 12 Apr. 2015.
Kilbourne, Jean. “The More You Subtract, the More You Add: Cutting Girls Down to Size.” (1999).
KMont. “Not in Any Way Whatsoever.” Amazon. Amazon.com, Inc, 28 Nov. 2009. Web. 10 Apr. 2015.
Lucy. “Beautiful Disaster (Beautiful, #1).” Goodreads. Goodreads Inc, 4 Dec. 2013. Web. 11 Apr. 2015.
Mayer, Petra. “Best YA Fiction Poll: You Asked, We Answer!” NPR. NPR, 24
July 2012. Web. 18 Apr. 2015.
McClintock, Pamela. “Berlin 2013: ‘Shine’ Director to Adapt YA Hit ‘Fallen’ (Exclusive).” The Hollywood Reporter. The Hollywood Reporter, 5 Feb. 2013. Web. 12 Apr. 2015.
McGuire, Jamie. Beautiful Disaster. N.p.: Jamie McGuire, 2008. Epub.
Meyer, Stephenie. Twilight. N.p.: Little, Brown, 2005. Print.
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Ridgway, Shannon. “25 Everyday Examples of Rape Culture.” Everyday Feminism. N.p., 10 Mar. 2014. Web. 10 Apr. 2015.
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Stewart, Sean, Jordan Weisman, and Cathy Brigg. Cathy’s Book: If Found Call 650-266-8233. Philadelphia: Running, 2006. Print.
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19 Apr. 2015.Sources:
Ziv, Stat. “Children Homelessness Reaches Historic High, Report
Says.” Newsweek. N.p., 17 Nov. 14. Web. 11 Apr. 15. <ww.newsweek.com/
child-homelessness-us-reaches-historic-high-report-says-285052>.
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Papercuts on My Heart
By: Vivian Quevedo
Review of Paper Things
By: Jeniffer Jacboson
Candlewick Press
Febuary 1, 2015
Early childhood education in the United States revolves around cutting
out paper shapes and pasting them in either an educational or recreational
ways. It’s a way to express creativity and individuality even if anything that
was produced wasn’t necessarily any good. Paper follows us until the end but
those kind of crafts are outgrown. However, in the young adult novel Paper
Things, by Jennifer Richard Jacobson, Arianna Hazard doesn’t cling to those
memories but she holds onto her Paper things; cutouts that she’d accumulate
over years They are her escape from the dire reality that she and her brother
Gage might not have a place to stay for the night, that food is hard to come by,
that Janna Delaney, their guardian, could come back and make her stay with
her and leave Gage alone. It’s a tale of the life of a hidden homeless girl who’s
life events are forcing her to mature quickly, but she still holds onto the paper
thin memories of better days. For those who enjoy well done stories of growing up, overcoming looming obstacles, and family, this is the one for you.
This protagonist is a bright English-loving 5th grader who’s dealt with
the burdening weight of losing her mother to illness. It’s in the point of view
of Arianna and she’s not a teenager or adult but still a child. She uses concise statements without much detailed imagery as compared to a much more
dense first person book i.e. Crime and Punishment for example. That detail
allows us to understand her age better and remember that younger kids have
a completely different way of seeing things. But this limits how one visualizes Arianna’s world. Many cases there seems to be a lack of interest with the
background of the city she lives in. As stated earlier, yes she’s young and large
wordy descriptions about her classroom don’t really matter, but it’s difficult to
paint a picture of what her life looks like. As a reader, getting caught up in the
character’s life is one of the joys of reading and it needed more of it. From this
point of view it, however, it gives us an insight on who Arianna really is as a
person. She is a really bright kid who loves deeply about all who she is really
close too and is worried about their being. This eleven year old is caught in the
middle of an ongoing dispute between her guardian and older brother, both
whom she loves. As the book begins, she’s made up her mind but would rather
have this small peculiar family stay together: “I begged Janna without saying
a word: Please, Janna, tell Gage you’re sorry. Ask him to stay.” (5 Jacobson). It’s
not Arianna’s strength to speak her mind about difficult topics. Along with all
the other adversaries, Arianna is also very self conscious about how she’s no
longer a starry, gifted child and seems to have, “lost all [her] shine,” (70 Jacob
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son ). Her having a lack of place to work or study makes it difficult for her to
do any work outside of school, causing her grades to suffer. She hides her true
feelings and thoughts from everybody but along with regaining her family she
also gains bravery to speak her mind.
The story summary of this novel held promise to me. It’s not an uncommon
topic with children being homeless and no one having a clue about their situation. “One out of every 30 children in the U.S. experienced homelessness last
year. That makes nearly 2.5 million children who, in 2013, lived in shelters, on
the streets, in cars, on campgrounds or doubled up with other families in tight
quarters, often moving from one temporary solution to another.” states Newsweek. Its an increasing epidemic that Jessica Richard Jacobson put to words to
most likely increase awareness of such a large issue.
What was sort of ingenious of Jacobson’s story was the main character’s use
of an item such as simple catalogue cutouts to give a subtext to the action of
the plot. The origin of the “paper things” was a single widowed mother of a
war veteran who did the best she could to raise responsible and thoughtful
kids. She sucumbs to illness, and as Arianna’s way of making her mother feel
better during those hospital days was playing a game called “Paper Things”.
As years passed her fantasy world expanded and it grows from clippings of
a simple family, to her collection having the capacity to fill an entire room’s
floor. One paper things boy, named Miles, was the first boy to be cut out by her
and her mother and was the oldest clipping Arianna had. As Gage’s and Ari’s
situation gets worse, Miles is ripped in half. Initially it was odd that she was
writing about this specific clipping then I remembered that Arianna had in the
first chapter that, “In the beginning, there were just three people in my paper
family- just like really family,” (19 Jacobson). To her Miles was just like Gage
and him being ripped in half meant that Gage is having issues himself and it
worried her so as soon as she could she tapped him back together, hoping that
it would be okay. Arianna does the same with her real brother, trying to do
things to make their lives easier; one job she gave herself was collecting money
that she found on the streets and saving it up so they could get “an apartment”
(pg 98). Then, thing go from bad to worse and her precious paper world is defaced in the midst of it, confirming that as Arianna’s real world crumbles so
does her paper one.
Another aspect of the novel was the well rounded characters that seemed
one dimension as the story commenced. Gage is one of those overprotective
brothers that genuinely cares about his sister yet he’s selfish underneath being
a very supportive parent. He had walked out of his guardian, Janna because
he couldn’t stand her ways of life and seemed to only care about Arianna.
Gage just didn’t agree with Janna. Partially because she was tough on him, but
it mostly is derived from Janna acting like a mother to him and Arianna when
they had one and didn’t need a stranger. As we read through Gage’s character
development he comes to realize that leaving a good place where Arianna was
cared for, well fed, and happy all, was his will:
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“It’s not your fault it’s mine,’ he says, resting his head on the
door. And then to my surprise, a tear runs down his cheek , too.
‘I’m the one who lied to Janna and said we had an apartment.
I’m the one who drags you all over the city, carrying all your belongings. I’m the one who gets mad at you when you’re sick, who
can’t give you more than Cheerios for breakfast and for lunch,”
(pg 245).
Eventually he gives up on his resentment of Janna and actually is more than
grateful towards her as he admits that keeping them together wasn’t the best
choice. Gage wasn’t the only one with well written character development.
Other minor characters, whose purpose seemed fleeting come back
with the tear jerkers. Janna who’d played the role of one of the obvious antagonists comes back with a surprising twist and you warm up to this strict guardian and feel as though Arianna was in great care before taking off with her
brother. An example from the beginning of the book would be when she was
taking notes of the “their” apartment: “So, this is cute,’ she says... Her judge-y
voice is back on, big time,” (101 Jacobson). It’s easy to imagine a wound up
older woman with no hint of joy in her face but her time alone she says she’s,
“ done a lot of soul searching while you guys were away, and I think I might
have misjudged your brother,” (310 Jacobson). Janna’s growth was instrumental for Arianna and her personal development in the sense that she can put her
faith in Janna once again. A young classmate of hers, Daniel, helps push her
out of the comfort zone and gain confidence to become a leader and a go-getter. One of his lines that summarized his character, “Those who engage in civil
disobedience must be brave,” (321 Jacobson). He wasn’t a typical replacement
friend when things got sour with Sasha, but assists her maturity and was the
reason she achieves her academic goal.
Being well written, well developed, and well done, Paper Things is one
of those human stories that leaves you reevaluating what it is to be a family;
it helps its readers acknowledge of how much a roof over our heads and a
warm soft bed is really worth. Aside from informing the reader of troubles
that plague our country and society it also gives us a concrete ideal that whatever goals you have can be achieved but not with wishing, rather with action.
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Work Cited:
Ziv, Stat. “Children Homelessness Reaches Historic High, Report Says.”
Newsweek. N.p., 17 Nov. 14. Web. 11 Apr. 15. <ww.newsweek.com/child-homelessness-us-reaches-historic-high-report-says-285052>.
Images:
http://www.abouthomesdecorating.com/read/cut-out-people
http://funny-pictures.picphotos.net/cut-out-red-round-circles-forthe-noses-i-use-a-santa-s-hat-to-cover/intra.burltwpsch.org*users*dbialous*MVC-032S.JPG/
Brad Grey
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The Falconer: A Quest for Vengeance and
Character Development
by S. Rain Mathis
Elizabeth May, The Falconer
Chronicle Books, 2013
“I’m beginning to
realize how much
our secrets define
us,” Ailena, the main
protagonist in Elizabeth May’s The Falconer, declares. May’s
novel was published
by Chronicle books
in 2013. An excellent
first publication, May
creates an interesting
story within her Fae
infested, Victorian era
world.
As if the book were
tainted by Fae magic,
the reader is instantly drawn in and enticed to follow Lady
Aileana on her vengeance-driven
Fae
hunt. May stimulates
the reader’s interest
within the first few
pages by revealing an
elegant ball scene and
a murderous Fae. “The
Redcap charges me. It
swings the hammer as
if it weighs nothing, so
fast I barely have time to react. I spin my body and roll to the ground” (May). On
her adventure, there is never a dull moment; Aileana’s fights are written smoothly and are exceedingly visual. You can almost taste the blood in her mouth after
an enemy lands a blow, or the rush of the wind as she barely dodges the Redcap’s
hammer.
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The language is simple, yet descriptive when it needs to be. May doesn’t
waste time describing settings that the reader can easily visualize. “I want to
lose myself in it,” Aileana describes the way a fae can make her feel. “Something about it makes me want to run barefoot through the forest, through
thick ocean waves, and-“ (May). Every time a fae presence is described, May
uses visceral descriptions that connect with the reader.
Then there is Gavin, Derrick and Kiaran: the fascinating characters that
make you want to keep reading. Banter between these three character is well
written and each have a unique voice. Gavin, one of the seers, isn’t brave
like Aileana, but adds to the story in his own way. Gavin serves as a constant
reminder of how dangerous and unpredictable the Fae are. A good friend to
Aileana, he is also her link into the oppressive Victorian society they live in.
Derrick, Aileana’s honey-drunk pixie, always has something interesting to
say and is a good comedic relief. His humorous pixie quirks do not demean
Derrick to a simple comedic role; instead he is a functioning member of the
group that contributes in his own way.
Lastly there is Kiaran, the most interesting character in the entire book. The
mysterious and handsome Fae plays a key part in Aileana’s story. Kiaran’s
character is hardly compromised until the tail end of the story; he has a dark
history that doesn’t fall into the stereotypical category that most fictional,
handsome, mysterious men find themselves in.
Since there is never a dull moment, however, the entire story is incredibly
fast paced and turbulent. While it makes for a fun read, the speed of which
you move through the story takes away from potential suspension and development of the world and characters. I would have loved more background
and immersion into the Fae world. There are a few plots twists that are meant
to be shocking, but instead come off as clichés. For example, the Fae that murder Aileana’s mother is linked to Kiaran, which means to extract vengeance
she will have to kill her love interest.
The supporting characters outshine the main protagonist; Derrick, Gavin
and Kiaran are the driving force that kept me interested in the story. May
attempts to create a strong warrior woman, but this is overshadowed by her
relationship with Kiaran and her overbearing father. While she is a ferocious
fighter, her descriptions are often repetitive and only emphasis her thirst for
vengeance and the thrill of the hunt. While these are Aileana’s main driving
factors, she doesn’t develop much beyond these motivations. There is little to
no character arc; despite all the dynamic characters surrounding her, Aileana
remains a mostly static character.
I don’t understand Aileana’s compliance with Victorian etiquette and society. If is to please her father? Her father who is overbearing and absent for
most of the story? Even Kiaran questions why she complies with society’s
ridiculous laws, “Such a Prison you live in, I wonder how you breath.” (May).
She has an awful reputation already, and having a high social standing offers
her no benefits that would help her in her quest for vengeance, so why not
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leave? It would certainly make her hunting a lot easier. Her struggle to fit in
seems one dimensional and unnecessary.
While I appreciate May’s attempt at a strong female protagonist, I feel there
are other prominent characters she could have drawn from, such as Eowyn
from Lord of the Rings, or Lyra Silvertongue from The Golden Compass Series.
Eowyn is bound by similar standards, but operates within them without
making herself into a social outcast. But in the Lord of the Rings: Return of the
King, she rides into battle with the army and recues her father from a dangerous Nazgul and its Ringwraith rider. “But no living man am I!” she makes a
strong stand against her enemy, “You are looking upon a woman. Eowyn am
I, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone,
if you benot deathless! For living or undead, I will smite you if you touch
him.” (Tolkien) She then proceeded to slay the beast and protect her father
from home. A strong example, Eowyn represents the struggle warrior woman
often face.
Lyra Silvertongue is a younger protagonist, but like Aileana, is wild. She is
also a character that never compromises herself for societal nictitates. In The
Golden Compass, Lyra is taken in by Mrs. Coulter. An upstanding woman,
Mrs. Coulter lived a life of luxury and Lyra was pampered. Mrs. Coulter took
the ruffian child to a “fashionable hairdreser’s, where her stuff dark blonde
hair was softened and waved, and her nails were filed and polished…” (Pullman). These were luxuries that Lyra never had, but instead of staying (which
would have betrayed the nature of her character) she ran away from Mrs.
Coulter’s house. Lyra is an excellent example of an uncompromising character
that doesn’t betray her morals and motivations.
Despite these flaws, The Falconer is still an entertaining novel. It makes for
an excellent light read and represents the Steampunk- fantasy genre. An impressive debut, I look forward to what Elizabeth May publishes in the future.
Works Cited
May, Elizabeth. The Falconer. San Francisco: Chronicle, 2013. Print.
Pullman, Philip. The Golden Compass. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996.
Print.
Tolkien, J. R. R. The Return of the King: Being the Third Part of The Lord of
the Rings. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1965. Print
PGR 291
Finding Ones Self (by Playing the Part)
By Kayla Childers
Playing a Part.
By Daria Wilke.
Arthur A. Levine Books, 2015.
Price: $9.99 - 17.99
It is common for actors, writers,
and singers to have a kind of stage/
pen name but what about an alter
ego? For example Lana Del Rey is a
famous indie pop singer/writer but
she has also been referred to as Lizzy
Grant and May Jailer, even though her
real name is Elizabeth Grant. Each of
her roles has been a different version
of herself. Lizzy is the soft-spoken
and incent. May is folk singer. Lana
is bold and sensuous, singing deep
and lustful lyrics (Warheit). Often
time’s people change their names so
that they will be more appealing but
changing your whole “identity” for the right reasons can be a life changing
experience. For Grisha, the main character in Playing a Part, by Daria
Wilke, he unfortunately has a hard time standing up for himself against his
bullies. As chaos enters the theater and his daily life, he will have to find the
strength within himself--by playing the part of the Jester. This book is about
discovering your self and learning how to stand up to your bullies.
Grisha has spent his whole life growing up in the theater. His main
friends are Sam (actor), Sashok (other theater kid), and Lyolik (The puppet
master). What influences him the most is the Jester puppet. I didn’t quiet
understand his fascination until diving deeper in the book; in chapter five a
quote from The Glass Slipper shows just how confident the Jester’s role is.
I’m the king’s favorite jester,
Though I’m often called a fool.
My specialty is laughter,
But I’m smarter than a jewel.
Smarter than I prince I am,
Smarter than the King of Siam!
His cap has no bell to ring in your ear,
Not a single jingle your heart to cheer! (73)
Grisha looks up to the jester because he is not afraid to be himself and act
like a fool, which he admires greatly. He later says that his bullies are “so
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easy to fool. That’s why I feel sorry for them” (118). He says this, because
they are easily persuaded to think Sashok is his girlfriend; they don’t want
to feel uncomfortable with the alternative. Grisha wants desperately to feel
comfortable in his own skin like the Jester does.
The Jester has many other names
including clown, comedian, and the
fool. Though most people in American
culture don’t strive to be like a clown,
there is still a great importance to
the role. My favorite example would
be the clowns in Cirque Du Soleil.
David Shinner, a Cirque Du Soleil
project director and clown, says the
circus has a “great tradition of always
having good clowns… As a director,
since I am a clown, the clown has
a principal role. He’s the character
who’s taking us through the evening.”
This got me thinking why do people
rely heavily on a comedian during a
show that is already breath taking,
emotional, and dangerous? Would we
not enjoy the show as much with out
the clown? Shinner explains futher
that “the clown is the one who has the
deepest emotional connection with the
audience… the clown really gives us a
sense of our humanity, because he’s a
fool, he’s playing the role of a fool…The clown helps us to accept ourselves, as
who we are”(Cirque Du Soleil).
I recommend this book to 7th graders and possibly through out high
school. I highly suggest this book in a classroom setting; a teacher can start
a good discussion about this Russian book. Integrating it into a lesson plan
is ideal because what I enjoyed most, was researching this book and topics
that came up. Sexual orientation, bullies, and ones identity are the main
topics in the book and are important at this age to reflect on. Also engaging
adolescence in a dialogue about the differences and similarities of American
and Russian culture toward homophobia and bullying. Doing some
research, I found that recently in Russia there has been some issues dealing
with LGBT rights.
The Russian Duma unanimously approved a law … that prohibits
the distribution of homosexual “propaganda” to minors. Holding gay pride
events, speaking in defense of gay rights, or equating gay and heterosexual
relationships can now result in fines of up to $31,000. (Khazan, Olga)
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Though this may seem like a world away from America and maybe even in a
different era, it is something that is simply not solved here. In the book there
are many similarities between our cultures including how we bully LGBT.
From my experience bullying is not always face-to-face. In America,
young and old generations are engaged in a new thriving past time called
cyber bullying. Just recently a sixteen-year-old transgender decided to take
her life. Taylor Alesana was a teen that was popular on YouTube for her
makeup videos and for sharing her experiences with bullying. In one of her
videos she described her new look as “going back into the closet”, no longer
expressing her true identity in fear of some of her peers. There was one part
of this video that stuck out the most for me. It was that she thought she had
friends because people would smile and say hi. After an incident, where a
picture went out of her in a swimsuit, she realized those same people were
saying horrible things about her. Even now people are posting mean things
about both Gay and trans on the article about her death. So you see it is not
solved here in America, it’s just in a new form. (Branson-Potts, Hailey)
“A Gay-Themed Children’s Book in a Country That’s Outlawed GayThemed Children’s Books” is an article that really shined the light on how
special this book is. I was able to learn some fascinating information on
this book-- including that it was originally titled The Jesters Cap. It was
bravely released in Russia at a time when anti-gay laws were being created.
The author explained how “the publisher realized that if we didn’t release
the book now, we might never be able to release it”. They worried most
bookstores would not take it but actually found that they would as long as
there was an 18 and older stamp on it.
The biggest complaint she heard was “why are you writing a
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children’s book with homosexuality involved. Russia has so many other
problems you could be tackling.” She explains, “that criticism is weird.
Writers write about what’s important to them, not about what’s most
important to society”. If writers were forced to only write about the more
important things in a society then there would never be any growth in that
society. She doesn’t mind that her book may be taboo in Russia because at
least the other opinion is out there. She explained that growing up in the
theater she knew a couple openly gay people and didn’t think anything
about it. It was part of her childhood, so she wrote about it in this young
adult novel. This book is clearly made for a younger audience. (Khazan, Olga)
The book is split up in to 10 small chapters with very intriguing tittles
such as “Party Jacket”, “Puppets Alive”, and “Salty Pears”. All the tittles had
interesting meaning behind them. Although this book had only 161 pages
I found it to be a slow read and a tad corny at times. I came to understand
why the Jester is important to him but I don’t get why he is calls other people
jesters. First it was Sam, because he plays the role, then it was Lyolik, because
he created the puppet, then it was Sashok, saying she’s more powerful than
a king, and finally Filipp became a Jester too! Of course, some corny is nice
because I love how he ends up building the Jester for his friend. Also, there
ends up being a special meaning to the original tittle The Jesters Cap.
The book really dives into the main character and his feeling about
all the people that surround him. Grisha speaks as if to a diary with some
reflections of past experiences, one being a terrifying moment with his
grandfather. Grisha’s grandfather ends up being his biggest bully; his old
worldviews often causes others discomfort. Grandfather doesn’t think a
young man should be raised in a theater and later he would accuse his
daughter of throwing Grisha “at the theater queer (Sam)”(158). Despite his
grandfathers views Grisha knows that the theater is the one place he is
happiest and can truly be himself.
The biggest strength of this book was the description of the theater it
self, because Wilke grew up in a family of puppeteers and spent most nights
at the theater. In the first chapter, Wilke sets the scene and introduces the
whole theater family. She then beautifully describes the excitement of putting
on a show and why the theater is such a special place. She explained how
the theater didn’t need windows, “In the theater there is no fall or winter, no
morning or night –its always its own season and day. The theater season, the
theater day (24).” This was the one place where you could be any one or do
anything i.e. “even cry, if you’re a boy (2).” Growing up in the theater saved
Grisha from the harsh homophobic world right outside the theater doors. In
the end he was able to face his bullies, knowing that he can always rely on
his theater family, the Jester, and himself.
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Works Cited
Branson-Potts, Hailey. “Transgender Teen Who Spoke on YouTube of Bullying
Takes Her Own Life.” Los Angeles Times, 10 Apr. 2015. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
&lt;http://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/transgender-teen-who-spoke-onyoutube-of-bullying-takes-her-own-life/ar-AAaFtAG?ocid=mailsignout&gt;
Cashins, Pat. David Shiner. Digital image. Clownalley.net. 28 Dec. 2006. Web.
Cirque Du Soleil. “David Shiner.” Cirque Du Soleil. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
<https://www.cirquedusoleil.com/en/jobs/casting/team/mentor/david-shiner.
aspx>.
“Jester.” Digital image. Https://www.pinterest.com/pin/31736372349152315/.
Web.
Khazan, Olga. “A Gay-Themed Children’s Book in a Country That’s Outlawed
Gay-Themed Children’s Books.” The Atlantic. Atlantic Media Company, 25
July 2013. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
Khazan, Olga. “Why Is Russia So Homophobic?” The Atlantic. Atlantic Media
Company, 12 June 2013. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
Nawotka, Edward. “Publisher Who Defied Russia’s Anti-Gay Laws Wins AAP
“Freedom” Award.” Publishing Perspectives. 25 Mar. 2015. Web. 20 Apr. 2015.
<http://publishingperspectives.com/2015/03/publisher-who-defied-russiasanti-gay-laws-wins-aap-freedom-award/>
TorRee, Miss. Gender. Digital image. Http://pulmonaire.tumblr.com/
post/10503573312/gender-by-misstorree. Web.
Rodriguez, Sharismar. Playing A Part. Digital image. Http://www.amazon.
com/Playing-Part-Daria-Wilke/dp/0545726077. Web.
Warheit, A. (n.d.). Lana Del Rey Was Not Always Lana Del Rey: A Look at Her
Earlier Life. Retrieved April 27, 2015, from http://guardianlv.com/2014/04/
lana-del-rey-was-not-always-lana-del-rey-a-look-at-her-earlier-life/
Wilke, Daria, and Marian Schwartz. Playing A Part. New York: Arthur A
Levine, 2015. Print.
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Race, Prejudice, and the Power of The
Written Word
Review of Lady Moses by Lucinda Roy
HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 1999
Price: $9.72 - $17.78
By Eliza Powers
Lady Moses by Lucinda Roy is the riveting tale of a woman battling
grief, racial prejudice, and herself. It is also a love story. Not a romantic love
story, but a love story about the relationship between a woman and literature. The stories her father tells her as a young child inspire a lifetime of creativity and hope. The written word guides her life, and leads us through her
story. It leads us through the foggy streets of London and the dank rooms
of her childhood home, the American South and a whirlwind marriage that
began in an art gallery and
ends in a tragic accident, and
the colorful landscapes of West
Africa where our protagonist
finds a way to be the person
her father wrote stories about.
Jacinta Louise Buttercup Moses
is the daughter of an African
writer, and a British actress. At
the age of five her father passes,
taking the light from her mother’s eyes and leaving Jacinta
in a world where she felt like
an outcast due to the color of
her skin. Growing up she reads
everything she can get her
hands on, which sparks a longing for a better life, a powerful
imagination, and an unhealthy
sense of entitlement, leading to
a deep unhappiness. Her distaste for everything around her
and the lives of the people she
loves push her to be better. She
also begins experimenting with
different kinds of writing to express herself and uses it as an outlet for the
conflict in her life, whether it is the feeling she doesn’t belong, her mother’s
death, or the death of her husband. This coping mechanism is a key part of
the protagonist’s life, and outlines the story. It gives her the strength to face
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adversity, and to go on the journey to find her own spirit.It is her career,
and her passion.
The protagonist’s connection with her father is one of the driving
forces of this novel, and the loss she feels when he dies is very poignant
because both her and her mother lose themselves as well. Her journey to
find herself through writing and through regaining her connection with
her father’s spirit is a journey for the reader as well. The way her father
became synonymous with his writing sets the stage for a lifetime of a
connection to writing when he is gone.
Simon Moses and Simon Moses’ stories were the same thing
when I was young. When I looked back on our time together, I couldn’t separate the man from the narratives he’d
weave. From within the web of Simon’s stories, I learned
about good and evil, glory and despair. I learned how to
live with courage, and how to love the land we came from
although I had never seen it with my own eyes. Simon’s
eyes saw it for me. The voice in his stories comforted me. I
could lie down in the hammock of his words and listen to
Africa calling my name. (Roy 13)
This section illustrates both the importance prose has in the story, and
Roy’s compelling use of language and impressive storytelling capabilities.
Roy uses literature to carry the protagonist through her life and
allows the reader an especially close insight into the protagonist’s mind
while highlighting the important events in the story. She also uses language from the time the story is set and incorporates events like the Beatles new album being released. One of the first lines in the story that truly
demonstrates the importance of writing and literature in the protagonist’s life and embodies one of the core pieces of the story occurs after
the protagonist’s mother dies, and their life long friend comes to Jacinta
and says, “Write it down...You know it will heal us if we write it down.”
(Roy 5). This sets up the rest of the story as a first person tale of a woman’s struggle from poverty in London, to being a professor in Virginia.
The protagonist heals through writing, and uses it as a connection to her
father, and to her husband. “We wrote together, and held out the rest of
the world...I think about Manny, the man who took me to Paris and made
me want to write.” (Roy 150-151) This artistic connection was a key part
of their marriage, and illustrates the importance of sharing writing in her
interpersonal relationships that began with her father. This use of writing and literature to connect characters is a powerful technique which
contributes to the very honest tone of the novel. The way the story is told
truly feels like this woman is revealing her life story, including the dark
and shameful parts that make the voice very genuine.
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The careful use of language and the way Roy weaves the story of a
woman from a very unusual background makes this book hard to put down.
As many authors do, Lucinda Roy wrote what she knew, and many of the
experiences in the book are loosely based on her own. She was born in the
same place as our protagonist, Battersea, London, to a British actress and a
Jamaican artist and writer, around the same time as the protagonist, and now
lives in Virginia with her husband, where she is a professor. She also grew up
in poverty and struggled with racism, and the challenges of coming from a
mixed race family. The personal experiences she writes into this book give the
characters and events more depth than most authors are able to achieve, because she uses enough fiction to blur the line with reality. The characters feel
very real, which makes ending the book very difficult because the author is
able to share her bond with these characters with the reader. From the first few
chapters you miss Jacinta’s father with her, and feel pity for her mother who
loses her mind without him. You grow very fond of Alfred, the man who lives
in the small flat below her childhood home and becomes her best friend and
father figure. Her husband is manic depressive and their child is disabled, and
through these challenged Jacinta is very real and has a multifaceted personality that makes this novel read like a memoir. The way these characters are
written make you relate to them on a deeper level than most novels. Their actions are often wrong, unreasonable, and harmful to the people around them,
but it creates a tangible connection between them and the reader because their
flaws are what make them into real people, not just names in a narrative.
Although this story is incredibly unique, the portrayal of loss is universal. The protagonist’s efforts to carry on without her father reflect the struggle
of many children and adults. The loss of a parents often affects people for
decades afterwards, and puts them at a greater risk for depression and other
problems. Reading a book where the loss of a parent is portrayed in a realistic
way, and the child’s reactions are not the idealized version that are written in
many stories, could be very helpful for a person who has gone through the
same thing. Jacinta’s story, woven together with Roy’s, is a distinctly original
one, that immediately draws the reader in and leads them down a beautiful,
winding path. The author’s personal experience, and love affair with prose
has an obvious effect on the story which creates a genuinely beautiful novel.
Works Cited
“Lucinda Roy - Biographical Info for Lucinda Roy.” Lucinda Roy - Biographical Info. N.p.,
2013. Web. Apr. 2015.
“1 In 7 Americans Lose a Parent or Sibling Before Age 20 - Comfort Zone
Camp.” Disabled World. Comfort Zone Camp, 22 Mar. 2010. Web. Apr. 2015.
Marks, Nadine F., Heyjung Jun, and Jieun Song. “Death of Parents and Adult
Psychological and Physical Well-Being: A Prospective U.S. National Study.”
Journal of Family Issues. U.S. National Library of Medicine, n.d. Web. Apr.
2015.
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Young Adult and Graphic Novels: This
Generation’s Philosophy Textbooks
by Annie Finch
The Sculptor
Scott McCloud
First Second, 2015
$18.74
When I began reading The Sculptor I wasn’t expecting to encounter my philosophy textbook nestled in between an over-the-top street performance and a
tastefully drawn sex scene. Of course, I didn’t read the back cover or the front,
inside leaflet; I simply saw it was a graphic novel and descended upon it like a
vulture. The discovery of these thought provoking elements within the novel
lead to an agonizing night in which I attempted to unravel all of the connections in McCloud’s intricate storyline.People often criticize young adult novels
and graphic novels alike, but The Sculptor and numerous others, while not outright philosophical works, have the potential to get young adults to begin to
think critically about big questions.
On the surface The Sculptor has a fairly basic plot. David Smith, a starving
artist, makes a deal with Death. He gains the power to create any sculpture he
can think of with his bare hands. In exchange, he is given only 200 days to live.
Inevitably David falls desperately in love and encounters obstacles in gaining
the success he hopes for in his career, the culmination of which force him to
regret his deal with Death and face what his legacy truly will be. However,
below the surface you’ll find the themes of hopelessly seeking fame in a world
where you are anonymous and, to those who don’t know what you look like,
interchangeable with any other John or Jane Doe, as well as the fragility of life.
You discover the subtle relationship David has with Death (and the relationship others have with Death), who manifests as David’s long dead uncle. The
Sculptor isn’t a difficult read, and despite a couple instances of crude language
and a depiction of breasts, it’s a perfectly acceptable book for any young adult.
It continues a trend in young adult accessible novels where real issues are openly discussed and
morals and philosophies are called into question.
The Sculptor’s main subjects all stem from David’s life goals, his deal with Death and, consequently, his approaching expiration date. David
wants to be a success, he wants his art to be seen.
More than that, he wants his name to be attached
to his art. He wants people to remember who he
is. What is curious about this scene is that in it we
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learn that everything David has sculpted with
his new talent for the prospective buyers and art
critics to view is a specific memory he has from
childhood, the time of his life during which he
was most happy. He has sculpted everything
from his school field trips, to the most embarrassing moments, to his dead sister, looking as she
did in life. David wants his art to be seen. His art
consists of his
memories, his
thoughts
and
feelings. Therefore, David wants his thoughts,
feelings and memories to be seen by the entire world. He doesn’t want them to be anonymous either. He wants his name attached. He
wants this art to be his legacy. People often
want to preserve their essence, who they were. They want people to remember
them even after they are dead. Even those who don’t want to be famous want
to be remembered by the ones they loved. David has no loved ones left at the
beginning of the novel. He has to rely on the world to remember him. This is
easier said than done. The book also depicts the theme of being one person in a sea of practically interchangeable people.
The first example of this comes from the yellow pages. This
is a very haunting image, the long list of “David Smith” that
extends beyond the boundaries of the page. In David’s city
alone he is already facing down an army of those who share
his name, fighting for recognition. The next instance comes
at the end of the book when the police officer trying to catch
David happens to share the
same name. At the final
hour, David dies, and the
news mistakenly reports
that the cop is the one who
is dead. The exchange between the cop and his
wife when she discovers the news was wrong reinforces the idea that while
to the general population you may be anonymous and
interchangeable, to the ones who love you, you are the
only John of Jane Doe of any importance. They’ll thank
God as long as they have you.
David’s relationship with Death is also something
unique and of interest. Death manifests in the novel as
David’s long dead uncle. It’s revealed to David that
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Death took over his uncle’s body when his uncle was killed in action and
returned home living the rest of his life watching his family grow and then
slowly die off. This recurring experience of death in the family parallels the
actual presence of Death in the family. Crazy coincidence? I think not. Two important images of Death are
repeated throughout the novel. The first image is of the
face of Death. He’s an old man, weathered away by the
countless mortal lives he’s seen end. And yet, there is
something creepy about him. At the same time you feel
sorry for him you also
feel afraid. He is familiar and terrifying.
The second image is
the hand of Death. It
always appears reaching out to touch someone thus ending their life. The hand is a more
classic representation of Death. It’s a skeleton.
The immediate action of witnessing someone
dying makes Death appear that much more scary.
Perhaps the most potent and obvious
question in The Sculptor is how do people
fall in love and live their lives “knowing”
how and when (to a certain degree) they
are going to die? David often feels guilty
and conflicted beginning a relationship
with this girl, the girl who is clearly his
soul mate, knowing that he will not live
long enough to enjoy any sort of life with
her. As their relationship develops David
finds himself taking the plunge of his own
accord if not at her insistence. He always
feels it was worth it, even with the guilt.
When he finally confesses to her that he is
going to die she convinces him to spend the
last few days of his life half doing work and
half living. As
soon as he comes to accept that whatever happens, happens and that he will have someone
to remember him when he’s gone, his life becomes lighter and he feels more fulfilled. He
can accept his death. In a way, having this relationship to cling to help alleviate the fear of
dying.
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The themes present in The Sculptor reminded me a great deal of another
novel about romance despite the inevitability of death, The Fault in Our Stars
by John Green. The book is about two teenagers with cancer who fall in love
despite, as Hazel, the main character, puts it, them being like a grenade, liable
to hurt everyone around them when one of them dies. “But The Fault in Our
Stars is not just a sappy paperback romance; it is not even just an exploration and challenging of cancer stereotypes. It is an intellectual, philosophical
work,” (Esther). What Jessica Esther says is true. The book deals with big questions like “What happens when we die?” and “How should we live our lives?”
(Esther). The main male protagonist, Augustus, discusses that his fear is not
of dying, but of oblivion, or the inevitability that one will eventually be completely forgotten and anything you did will be irrelevant (John Green’s book is
fairly nihilistic). Other books with similar themes include Don’t Die, My Love
by Lurlene McDaniel.
The philosophy of death and dying is by no mean the only topic up for
discussion in young adult novels. In Boy Meets Boy, David Levithan, the author, created a fictional story that, as one reviewer puts it, “...is in effect a gay
utopia intended for a young popular audience,” (Rosen). Memories of a Geisha
by Arthur Golden discusses the Japanese Geisha culture and how it applies
to women’s issues. The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls is a true story about
homelessness. Even the most mainstream young adult fiction, The Hunger
Games, highlights important issues. Themes present in The Hunger Games include: poverty, oppression, rebellion, the horrors of war, PTSD, and questioning the enjoyment some people attain from watching others in pain. In fact,
so numerous are the philosophical and moral questions found in The Hunger
Games that an entire book can and has been written about them (It’s called The
Hunger Games and Philosophy: A Critique of Pure Treason by George A. Dunn if
you’re interested). So often young adult novels are disregarded, gaining a bad
reputation because of novels with weak female protagonists who spend their
days pining for a relationship with an abusive boy. But, for every novel with
a terrible role model as the protagonist, there are a dozen books that, if not
well written, can at least get us thinking critically about the issues it brings to
light. That’s why there’s an entire section on GoodReads.com called “Best Teen
Books About Real Problems.” They might not all be gems, but they’re as good
place a to start your philosophical journey as any.
The Sculptor is not classified as a young adult novel because graphic novels
are not placed in the same categories as other works of literature. They are a
category of their own, which is terribly misleading. After all, to me there is a
significant difference between Fables, a series about our childhood fairytale
characters being vicious, cut throat killers, thieves and liars, and Blankets, a
story of family and love and the struggles inherent to life. “‘If literature is
an art that brings about new understanding and insight—as I believe it to
be—then comics certainly fit the bill.’ (This Book Contains Graphic Language,
Rocco Versaci p. 210),” (Schwarz 71). Graphic novels and comics have for a long
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time been seen as a genre aimed at children, like a picture book, and therefore unimportant in discussions of literature (similar to the way people see
young adult novels). Nothing could be further from the truth. Some comic books and graphic novels are intended for children, but many deal with
subjects that a young person could not grasp. In recent years they have been
taken more seriously and published by big name companies. “Nevertheless,
the graphic novel retains much of its “outsider” or alternative status, offering unexpected topics, diverse views of the world, and a challenge to readers’
complacency,” (Schwarz 72). I’d argue that young adult novels also can offer
diverse world views when given the opportunity, and you can argue which
genre does it better. Perhaps the most famous example of a graphic novel that
discusses unexpected topics and challenges readers’ complacency is Maus, a
graphic novel about the holocaust and a father and son’s relationship. The book
certainly looks childish, with every character being drawn as an animal, but
many pages of the book depict the horrors of being a Jew in WWII. On one
page of the book the author draws himself, whilst trying to write down his
father’s experiences in WWII, sitting atop dead bodies. This image is not something that could have been achieved in a novel. It would have lost its potency.
The Sculptor is powerful because of its images as well. Facial expressions, vivid imagery (as in the case of the yellow books page) and in general the ability
to show life, not just describe it, help to send the message of how beautiful life
can be. However, the book has no bursts of color. The entire graphic novel is
illustrated in blues, blacks and white. These colors appear dull and faded, as if
the story, the people are all fading into obscurity even as you read.
Overall, The Sculptor is a graphic novel worth the read if you have time to
kill. It adds an interesting voice to philosophically charged or morally diverse
literature, though not the most valuable. Graphic novels have for too long been
overlooked as a valuable form of writing, but images can help to reinforce
messages and ideas that other novels spend pages painstakingly describing.
Young adult novels have also garnered a bad reputation and have been besmirched by “high brow” literary critics. However, a piece of literature’s value
is not determined by the genre into which it falls, but by the message it sends
and the books ability to inspire people to think critically about it’s subject
matter. The Sculptor, The Fault in Our Stars and The Hunger Games aren’t going
to replace your philosophy textbooks or works like The Republic anytime soon,
but if you’re looking for a fun, thoughtful read they aren’t a bad option.
Work Cited
“Best Teen Books About Real Problems.” GoodReads. 2015. Web. 19 April
2015.
Esther, Jessica. “The Fault in Our Stars, Or, The (Non-) Meaning of
Oblivion.” Wordpress. 13 Feb. 2014. Web. 19 April 2015.
McCloud, Scott. The Sculptor. New York: First Second, 2015. Print.
Rosen, Michael. “Lizzie McGuire Meets Queer as Folk.” The Guardian. 15
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April 2005. Web. 19 April 2015.
Schwarz, Gretchen. “Graphic Novels, New Literacies, and Good Old Social
Justice.” The ALAN Review. 2010. Web. 13 April 2015.
Appendix A: Recommended Graphic Novels
Maus and Maus II by Art Spiegelman
Persepolis: The Story of Childhood by Marjane Satrapi
Blankets by Craig Thompson
Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art by Scott McCloud
Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic by Alison Bechdel
Brad Grey
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The Sky Is Shooting Blue Arrows:
Love, Life, and the Beautiful Journey
In-Between
By: Ty Akana
The Sky is Shooting Blue Arrows
By: Glenna Luschei
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is
all.”-Oscar Wilde
“The Sky Is Shooting Blue Arrows”, by Glenna Luschei is a book of poems that takes the reader on a jouney across the world; From the Mekong River
of Cambodia to Turkey, Landing in the Appalachian Mountains of the Virginia’s and Carolina’s, continuing to the Black Hill’s of South Dakota and further
west through Nebraska, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and finally
coming to a rest in the beauty of California’s Yosemite and Big Sur. This three
part adventure draws the reader in deeper and deeper through every passage,
responding to Palladas in her own way, and writing love letters to Nazar Qabanni. The brilliance of the author shines through as she writes of her personal
experiences with life, love, hardship, pleasure, pain, adventure, and death. I
will prove The Sky Is Shooting Blue Arrows is a must read, a journey that all
deserves to enjoy, learn and grow.
As the reader embarks on the adventure they can begin on any part for
each part is like its own mini-book of poetry. Part 1 titled “The Hunters” takes
you on a journey across the world, enjoying the natural elements and lifestyles
of the world. “The Hunters” is also a title of a poem in part 1, it reads:
Sun
crackels over the cottonwood.
The barrel of the rifle
blinds the quail.
Hide from the desert.
Hide in the Volcano.
The sky is shooting blue arrows.
Within the arch
we shriek farewell.
Obsidian
obsidian.
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Here she writes with the style of natural elements playing the lead role of
the poem, which theme is followed throughout the book, even the form is
chiseled to a fine tip just as arrows. The simplicity of the form helps to read
and understand the simplicity of the hunter’s life. To truly understand why
this poem is titled “The Hunters” you must have an understanding of nature
or natural landforms. “The sky is shooting blue arrows” is a figure of speech
for the stars that move across the sky and not to forget the title of the book and
one of the most beautiful lines I ever heard. But the key word here is “obsidian”
which is a glassed formed rock found in places with volcanos. “Obsidian is a
rock formed as a result of quickly cooled lava.”(Manser). Obsidian was valued
and traded by Native American tribes and used as “knives, scrapers, cutters,
spearheads and arrowheads.”(traditionalnativehealing.com). Understanding
this helps you understand the reference to the volcano and the last two lines,
its relevance and ultimately it’s hidden meaning.
Deeper into Part 1 you get a better overview of the author, as I continued on my journey set by Glenna, I came across a poem of true love and real
experiences. She writes:
Guided by bittern
we drove all across Nevada,
Utah, Colorado,
to take out my adored
Aunt Flora on her one hundredth
birthday. We spotted egret
even in the desert.
When we called Aunt Flora
she said “I’ll pick you up.
I’m driving a red Cadillac.”
Guided by bittern
she drove her daughter
through Mexico
in search of a cancer
cure: the apricot pit.
“When you lose a daughter
you lose one part of yourself.
That was worse than the diphtheria,
the Depression,
the grasshopper plague
when we covered
the wheat field
with quilts.”
When I lost a daughter
I gained a self
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to drive me
through the flora
the fauna
of the Sonoran desert without a hitch;
through the jimsonweed,
creosote bush.
Over lightning fields of Tucumcari
like the great blue heron
she guides me.
Imagine the pain, the adventure, the growth, the power of knowledge written in these lines; it is a book in itself. To truly understand what is being said
you must find the key words within the text. “Bittern is defined as any of
various small or medium sized herons” (Webster 30). In the first stanza they
are guided by small herons. They drive for Aunt Floras 100 birthday through
Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, even seeing egret in the desert. In the second
stanza we hear Aunt Flora is to pick them up (the author and Aunt Floras
daughter). Guided again by bittern she drives her daughter through Mexico
in search of a cancer cure. Cancer must win the battle for the second half of
the stanza speaks of the loss of a daughter, and the pain associated with that
loss. In the third stanza you notice no quote marks, the author has flipped the
same pain on to herself with her personal loss of her daughter. Expressing the
importance of self growth, “when I lost a daughter, I gained a self” she writes,
knowing the pain associated with these events. She enjoys her drive through
the flora and fauna of the Sonoran desert. Which means the natural plants and
animals of the specific region, but in the last two sentences she shows how the
soul can transcend above all “like the great blue heron, she guides me.” No
more guided by bittern but instead the Great Blue heron, another sign of transformation and growth and another beautiful poem with the balance of nature
and humanity rolled into one.
So in conclusion “The Sky Is Shooting Blue Arrows” is a brilliant masterpiece that allows its readers to travel and see the world through a naturalist
voice. To fall in love again and again, and appreciate the love you have. To embark on journeys not having an outcome but instead an adventure. To live, to
love life, share and participate in the cultures around us both past and present.
To search the lives we have for greatness as the author writes in “Every Bookcase Can Invent” which is a reflection on letter her mother writes her father
after she left him “She wrote, The sky is shooting blue arrows across the desert. She found her freedom in the west, but love pierced her heart.” Looking
into our own past with an open lens can lead to a title of a beautiful journey.
So I challenge anyone looking for love, adventure, and self growth to read this
book for it is all here waiting. If real life experiences don’t cut it for you then go
ahead and read the next teenie bopper wannabe love story or the next erotic
SNM billionaire in another shade, I’m sure some growth is BOUND to happen!
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Works Cited
Manser, M, H. The Facts On File Dictionary Of Allusions. Infobase Publishing. 2008
Webster, New Pocket Dictionary. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. 2005
www.traditionalnativehealing.com
http://www.cmgww.com/historic/wilde/(Oscar Wilde)
Brad Grey
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The Hotel Ambiguity
By Chase Wood
A review of The Hotel Alleluia
Author: Lucinda Roy
Publisher: Harpercollins, 2000
Price: $4.43
After finishing The Hotel Alleluia, by Lucinda Roy, I was left with many
questions. Although when it’s all said and done it all boiled down to the one
essential question we all ask ourselves: why? Why did Joan seek out her sister?
Why did Ursaline betray her sister? Why do problems magically disappear
when someone goes to counseling? The characters intentions were very ambiguous so I’ll attempt to answer the “why” but I fear that will bring us right
back to the same question. There was so much that I found wrong with this
book, I don’t feel like a more complete person after reading it, and at one point
I was rooting for the bad guy. I am aware that if I were someone with different
tastes I would probably enjoy this book and that’s what Ill address first.
Objectively this book
is fantastic. I know that
sounds weird after I just
bashed it in the opening
paragraph, but really it’s
great (Again, objectively).
Roy’s descriptive style is
amazing. She painted a
picture of whatever location the characters resided in. The way she worded certain passages really
struck home with me. I
liked this passage from
the book, “and the strange
thing was that there had
been no sign--nothing
except the sound of the
ocean which had made
me quiet, and I said to
myself, if God can soothe
me with such small aspect
of Himself, what could He
do if I opened myself up
to all of Him”(Roy, 124).
Roy shows her spiritual and perhaps religious
side in this quote. Wheth-
er she’s religious or not is unclear but she does include a lot of spirituality in
her writing. The dialogue was decent but at times it lengthy and trite. If I were
the target audience for this book I’d probably give it 4 stars. However, I am a
25-year-old nerd, so I give it 2. I had trouble getting through each chapter and
sometimes even skipped a paragraph if I knew where it was going. That being
said maybe this isn’t a fair assessment, but this is my experience.
My biggest beef with the book is that it had an excellent setup, but then
fell flat somewhere in the middle. The book opens with Ursuline Shebar, who
is one of the two sister heroines in this story. She is definitely the most fleshed
out character of the book and for all intents and purposes The Hotel Alleluia
is her story. Ursuline was abandoned by her father in West Africa and left at a
monastery. She was raised by nuns and grows up helping the church and becomes a wonderful painter. Throughout the book she struggles with the choice
of whether or not she wants to become a nun herself. This is her conflict and its
addressed a lot throughout the book. It’s especially important when Ursuline
starts falling for Gordon Delacroix, who happens to be her sister’s ex-lover.
This causes more conflict and in turn makes her a more interesting character.
Ursuline is an interesting character, which goes a long way when juxtaposed
to the remaining two main characters.
I’ll discuss Joan first because she is the one I have the most problems
with. Roy posits that Joan came to Africa from North Carolina to find Ursuline because she wanted to bring her back so she could hone her fine artistic
talent. It’s unfortunate for the reader that nothing comes of this premise. After traveling through this journey we don’t even get a payoff. When they get
back state side Joan completely loses interest in Ursuline and her artistic talent.
She’s even emotionally abusive because of the trauma from being kidnapped
by rebel soldiers. She eventually goes to counseling and is essentially cured.
Her character just felt like a stereotype to me, along with Gordon Delacroix,
the eco friendly Judas. He had his moments but in the end he was just another
dry character. Its important to note that after all these events and all the trouble they went through Ursuline moved back to Africa to be with her people.
The setting is perhaps the most interesting part of the book. War-torn
West Africa is the stage for our characters for most of the book. In reality West
Africa takes the lead in number of conflicts by a wide margin, when compared
to the rest of the continent. Almost every country is at war in some way or
another. Africa in general is no stranger to conflict and it wasn’t until 2012 that
awareness of this conflict went viral. When the short film entitled “Kony 2012”
hit YouTube, people started paying attention. You couldn’t have a conversation at the bus stop without someone bringing up Joseph Kony, and for good
reason. Invisible Children, Inc removed the mask from the horrifying African
warlord Joseph Kony. The information was so shocking and it was absorbed at
such a fast rate. I think its because it was handed to us on a nice clean accessible ad-free platter. It’s difficult to ignore such a horrific story but it’s easy to
forget about it because we have bills to pay. Luckily the video was enough to
get some wheels moving so Obama made a press release saying he would
deploy 100 Special Forces military advisers to provide “information, advice,
and assistance to partner nation forces” and to “remove Joseph Kony from the
battlefield”. Warlords like Joseph Kony are just the tip of the iceberg while the
icy submerged mass of tyranny in Africa rages on.
In the beginning of this essay I posed the question of “why”. I begrudgingly admit that I am unable to answer this question. Roy asked many great
questions, but was unable to answer them. That was essentially the downfall
of this book, along with the poor character arch and story structure. I wanted
to watch the characters reach a threshold and see them learn from their mistakes. I wanted to learn the secrets of Ursulines parents and why Joan was so
intent on going on this adventure in the first place. All I’m left with is questions, questions and a book I probably wouldn’t recommend.
Works Cited
Roy, Lucinda. The Hotel Alleluia: A Novel. New York: HarperCollins, 2000.
Print.
Kony 2012. Perf. Invisible Children, Inc. Youtube. N.p., n.d. Web. 13 Apr.
2015.
“Conflicts in Africa.” - Global Issues. N.p., n.d. Web. 13 Apr. 2015.
KOAK
PGR 313