WRIT Large 8.1: Writing the Self by University Writing Program University of Denver

WRITL ARGE RETROSPECTIVE

JANUARY 2019 VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1: WRITING THE SELF

ÂŠ UNIVERSITY OF DENVER WRITING PROGRAM

WRIT Large is published by the University Writing Program at the University of Denver

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An Introduction to Issue 1

WRITING THE SELF When a group of DU Writing Program faculty publishing this essay, Devon went on to serve conceived of publishing WRIT Large in the fall as a student editor for the next two volumes of of 2011, we envisioned a space to celebrate WRIT Large. undergraduate writing and research, both from our own WRIT classes and in the writing stu- Maggie Sava was a student editor for Volume dents engage in across campus and beyond. 6, but we first got to know her through her Over the last 7 years and 7 volumes of WRIT personal history chronicled in “The Places in Large, the faculty editors have worked with 63 Between” from Volume 5. Currently in London student authors and 19 student editors in our attending graduate school, Maggie traces her efforts to make student writing more visible on family’s deep roots in Denver and explains their the DU campus. In the process, we have col- connection to Hispanic school desegregation in lectively created a robust archive of outstand- the 1970s. ing student work, mostly in the form of a print journal. Kengo Nagaoka is the only student author to be published twice in WRIT Large. For this retThis year, we want to reflect back and call atten- rospective, we are highlighting his most recent tion to some of our favorite writing from the essay—”My Grandfather’s Nose: Lessons From volumes we’ve published so far. In the com- Gwich’In Indigenous Resistance in the Arctic ing months, we will showcase a trio of essays National Wildlife Refuge”—from Volume 7, which focusing on a theme we saw emerging from our was written as a response to Dominic Nelson’s pages. This retrospective will also allow for us rhetoric analysis of the arguments surrounding to create a more substantial online presence for oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife RefWRIT Large. uge. In another first for WRIT Large, Kengo was asked to write this essay specifically for this WRIT Large has given us the opportunity to get publication. He weaves his personal reflections to know the histories and experiences of our on visiting ANWR with voices of the Gwich’In student authors, and the first volume of the ret- activists he met while there. Kengo is now back rospective features essays that delve into more in Alaska, his home state, working with Alaska personal topics. The theme of this first volume youth on civic engagement projects. is “Writing the Self.” We hope you enjoy these three essays that use Now making his living as a writer, Devon Varoz writing to explore, construct, and represent “the mused on his early experiences and identity self.” as a writer in “Redeem the Trash: A Literacy Autobiography,” published in Volume 1. Devon reveals his perspective as a high school student Megan Kelly fascinated with Warhol’s factory, composing on Teaching Associate Professor a typewriter in his basement bedroom. After University Writing Program

Contents pg. 5

Kengo Nagaoka, “My Grandfather’s Nose”

Originally published in WRIT Large Volume 7 (2017)

pg. 11

Devon Varoz, “Redeem the Trash: a Literacy Autobiography”

Originally published in WRIT Large Volume 1 (2012)

pg. 13

Maggie Sava, “Places in Between”

Originally published in WRIT Large Volume 5 (2016)

pg. 20

Meet Our Authors

pg. 21

Call for Submissions

pg. 21

Acknowledgements

My Grandfather’s Nose:

LESSONS FROM GWICH’IN INDIGENOUS RESISTENCE IN THE ARCTIC NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE

Kengo Nagaoka

by Solicted by editors as response to D. Nelson’s “Crown of the Arctic” (2017) Originally published in WRIT Large Volume 7 (2017)

IT WAS 11pm IN ARCTIC VILLAGE. THE SUN WAS SETTING, washing the tundra and the small wooden cabins dotted across it in a brilliant shade of orange. Time for a trip up memory lane, Evon decided. We packed life jackets, warm clothes, and tanks of gas on a four-wheeler and clambered on as Evon revved the engine. We arrived at the banks of the East Fork Chandalar River just as the sun dipped under the horizon. The Chandalar is a calm river, as quiet as the village around it and the mountains nearby. It meanders south from the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and through Arctic Village, or Vashraii K’oo, and flows until it meets up with the mighty Yukon. We packed our things onto Evon’s aluminum boat and buckled our life jackets. “That there’s my grandfather’s nose.” Evon traced the shape of a large granite face on the closest mountain with his finger. The nose seemed to watch over the valley, solemnly and patiently. I glanced up at Evon’s face where a similar, determined gaze sat. With his firm grip, he grasped the steering wheel, skillfully navigating up the Chandalar like it was a vein on his own hand. “I used to come up here all the time when I was young to hunt, fish,” he mused. Twisting and turning up the river, we soon reached a point where I could see no sign of human life, not even a single light in the distance. The sun had set. The diffuse gray light of Arctic twilight permeated the landscape, uniting sky, land, and water. VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

Suddenly, Evon stood up and pulled out his hunting rifle. He had spotted a moose on the river bank. By the time I realized what was going on, he already had sights on the animal. Noticing the moose was a cow, he let out a deep sigh and sat back down at the wheel. By the time we made it back to the village, it was 2am. We could still hear fiddling coming from the tribal hall as tired dancers trudged to their beds by way of twilight. t

The next morning, we made our way back to the tribal hall. The Gwich’in Gathering, and thus the caribou butchering, was in full swing. A fourwheeler with a freshly killed caribou rested by the hall as men and women worked together to prepare the meat for the day’s meal. All around me, kids ran around laughing as Gwich’in grinned from ear to ear in the company of friends and family. Elders sat on the steps to the hall, reminiscing with old friends. Environmentalists and journalists, myself included, looked a little out of place, our bright North Face jackets clashing with the flannels and earthy colors around us. I was wearing a neon red windbreaker that screamed, “I’m not from here!” I wasn’t here on vacation; I was here for a reason. I was working with my friend Tristan as a fellow with the Fairbanks Climate Action Coalition, a community group in my hometown of Fairbanks, Alaska. Two of the leaders of the Coalition, Enei Begaye and Princess Johnson, invited us to Arctic Village for the Gwich’in Gathering, a weeklong meeting of the Gwich’in Indigenous peoples of Northern Alaska and Canada, to discuss issues related to oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) and traditional ways of living. We were staying with Enei’s husband and Princess’s brother Evon Peter, former tribal chief of Arctic Village. Princess has been a vocal advocate for protecting the Refuge since the ‘80s and previously served as executive director of the Gwich’in Steering Committee, an organization created by the Gwich’in Nation to protect ANWR. My trip to Arctic Village marked my first time north of the Arctic Circle and my first visit to a Native village. In Alaska, environmental issues and Indigenous rights are inextricable from each other. Thanks to Evon, Enei, and Princess, I was here to see and learn how. I went over to watch the caribou being prepared 6

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for lunch. Hunters had returned in the night after picking off a few from the herd to feed the Gathering. I watched as a man skillfully separated meat from bone, sinew from meat, and chopped the meat into cubes for the soup. The caribou were the reason any of us were there. Arctic Village itself is situated strategically near the migration path of the Porcupine caribou herd, which has provided Gwich’in villages with their main source of food for millennia. Gwich’in are synonymous with the Porcupine caribou, so much so that they call themselves the “caribou people.” “The body of the caribou is a microcosm of Gwich’in culture,” explains Gwich’in Caribou Anatomy. “When you look inside the animal, when you start butchering and processing, there is a whole new world waiting. There you will find our stories, our personal names and family names, our ceremonies, our games and toys, and the raw materials for making our traditional tools and clothing.” 1 The Gwich’in use every part of the caribou, from the nose to the hoof. Even the brain is fermented to make a paste to tan the hide. Those of us new to the butchering process watched in awe. Two women from the Sierra Club helped a man saw off the antlers from the head, as they laughed and took selfies. The man I was watching cracked open a thigh bone and offered me a piece of marrow. It tasted sweet and rich, like butter. I took in the sights and sounds of the Gwich’in Gathering and tried to imagine what it was like to be at the first Gathering in 1988. Alarmed by the threat of oil drilling in ANWR, the entire Gwich’in Nation assembled for the first time in over 100 years at the exact place I was standing. It was an historical event. People flew and boated in from more than a dozen small villages for the first Gwich’in Gathering. This was no simple feat; the ancestral homeland of the Gwich’in covers an area roughly the size of Colorado in both Alaska and Northern Canada. Outsiders wanted to drill on the Coastal Plain of the Refuge, a critical ecosystem where the Porcupine caribou travel each year to rear their young. The decision was unanimous. “It was at that Gathering that it became very clear from our elders and chiefs that we absolutely could not allow any oil development in the birthing and calving grounds of the Porcupine caribou herd,” Princess tells me.2 And the Gwich’in Steering Committee’s Human Rights Report doesn’t

sugarcoat it. If drilling were allowed, the caribou “harvest, so central and critical to the Gwich’in physical and cultural survival, would cease to provide a reliable means of subsistence or to sustain the way of life that has defined the Gwich’in culture for millennia.” 3 Every two years since 1988, Gwich’in have gathered in solidarity to reaffirm their position against oil development. They have fought through countless attempts by the Republican party to open ANWR to drilling, won multiple court cases, spent weeks upon weeks lobbying representatives in Congress, and seen several high-profile scientific studies prove what they already knew: that development of the Coastal Plain would spell disaster for their way of life. After more than three decades, the fight goes on. “I’m incredibly proud of our community,” says Princess. “I have so many people I can look up to, who, despite the odds, continue to come from a place of goodness and spirituality. And that was really ingrained in that first Gwich’in Gathering, where chiefs and elders only gave two directives, and that was to stand together united on this issue and to work in a good way. By sticking to those principles, we have been able to be an example of a powerful grassroots Indigenous-based movement that continues to this day.” 4 At the Gwich’in Gathering, I felt the unity, commitment, and determination of the Gwich’in in the face of powerful outside interests. I heard elders, chiefs, and youth talk about the importance of protecting the Refuge and preserving traditional ways of life. I even heard from Indigenous environmental activists from Ecuador and the Philippines who traveled thousands of miles to share their stories of resistance and stand together with the Gwich’in. I learned more and more about the Coastal Plain, a place the Gwich’in call Izhik Gwats’an Gwandaii Goodlit—“The Sacred Place Where All Life Begins”—a place they have been instructed to protect by their ancestors no matter what. It seemed absurd to me that, for more than three decades, politicians 3,200 miles away in Washington, DC, have been fiercely debating the future of this serene land, fighting over a thick black substance deep under the tundra. How could it be justifiable to sacrifice Indigenous life and culture for oil? Was no place sacred enough to save itself from becoming a number in an economist’s

spreadsheet? I learned quickly there was more to the debate than our nation’s hunger for fossil fuels. “I don’t think we can really have a conversation about resource extraction in the state of Alaska without getting into the history of the policies that this government has had in regard to Indigenous people,” Princess explains.5 Before the Gathering, I saw Princess give a lecture on Alaska Native history. She told us that her mother was sent to boarding schools and hit for speaking her native language. In my 12 years in the Alaska public education system, this was the first time I had heard in depth about the forced relocation of Alaska Native communities and the boarding school system designed to assimilate young Natives into white culture. I had grown up hearing the settler’s side of the story: the tales of the gold rush and of pioneers struggling to set up civilization in the “last wilderness.” To the settlers, nature was an enemy to be conquered. The reality for Alaska Natives is that their history and traditional knowledge of the land was systematically erased to make way for white settlers’ thirst for profit. This historical trauma manifests today in Alaska Native villages as poverty, drug and alcohol addiction, and some of the highest rates of suicide and domestic violence in the US. The colonial legacy is not dead. Alaska Native youth continue to face pressure to choose Western culture’s ways of defining success over traditional wisdom. These are all real problems for Arctic Village and many other Alaska Native communities. The push to drill on the Coastal Plain of ANWR is just another reincarnation of the same attitude that caused so much pain and destruction during Alaska’s early days. Politicians and fossil fuel executives continue to ignore warnings from elders and chiefs and display utter disregard for the livelihood of Indigenous peoples. The discourse surrounding ANWR from conservative Americans is alarming. In 2008, talk show host Glenn Beck said on air, “And when all the cute caribou leave for the winter, ANWR looks even more like Prudhoe Bay; a snowy, barren wasteland that, I say, looks pretty good with that big oil well sticking out of it.” 6 The caribou “couldn’t care less whether we were there, the pipeline was there, or the oil company was there,” responded then-Representative John Boehner (R-OH).7 Since the 1980s, all of Alaska’s Republican VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

Senators have made it their mission to open ANWR. Longtime Alaska Senator Lisa Murkowski still maintains that “there is no valid reason why we should not be allowed to proceed,” even after countless talks with Gwich’in leaders.8 “Jobs” and “energy security” are terms thrown around by conservative leaders to justify opening ANWR, but human rights are not part of the picture. Even those who advocate for protection often sideline concerns about Gwich’in food security and cultural survival in favor of talk about pristine wilderness and wildlife. As Princess claims, “Our elders say, ‘you can’t eat money, and you can’t drink oil.’ […] People really need to get back into a mindset where we are valuing the resources and critical intact ecosystems more than we’re valuing the almighty dollar.” 9 “It’s such a disconnect,” she continues. “That’s really been the ongoing issue with American society and many parts of the rest of the world, where we as humans have lost this humility that we are absolutely dependent on our Mother Earth and all of her resources.” 10 Through the process of colonization, Westerners have chosen the economist’s calculus of cost and benefit at the expense of Alaskan Indigenous knowledge of land and life, belittled as barbaric and useless. What we forget is that Indigenous peoples have lived sustainably on their lands for millennia— archaeological evidence suggests the Gwich’in have lived in Northern Alaska and Canada for at least 20,000 years. Their knowledge of their land is extensive and has allowed them to sustainably hunt caribou for thousands of years. As climate change causes the Arctic to thaw, researchers are beginning to refocus on Indigenous knowledge to gain a better understanding of environmental change. A recent book, The Caribou Taste Different Now, logs the observations of Inuit elders and knowledge holders as the Arctic climate changes, from minute differences in the taste of caribou to changes in the wild blueberry harvest. Tom Goldtooth from the Indigenous Environmental Network explains, “The industrialized world has removed humanity from nature that requires a need for organizers to be intentional on restorative justice strategies on reframing our relationship to the Circle of Life, Mother Earth and our cosmovision.” 11 If we are to create a world in which we can live sustainably with nature, we must follow Indigenous leadership and place Indigenous knowledge in the center. The 8

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Gwich’in have been living and breathing sustainability for millennia. It is beyond time we started listening. t

As I returned to Fairbanks on an 8-seater plane, I tried to sort through my thoughts and questions. The image of my bright neon jacket standing out against the browns and greens of the village was stuck in my head. I felt a deep sense of conflict between my privilege and their fight. How did the Gwich’in feel, seeing white people come to their Gatherings, most of whom never returned again? How was it possible for us outsiders to help in a fight that was so personal and spiritual? It was easy for me to hop on a plane, visit the Gathering, and return comfortably to my home, safe and secure. How could I relate to someone with the entire existence of their culture on the line? Despite these thoughts, the ANWR issue was something I had begun to care about deeply. I felt it was a key battle in a much larger struggle. I remembered the words of Aboriginal activist Lilla Watson: “If you have come to help me, then you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” 12 Although I wouldn’t immediately be affected by drilling in ANWR, I had more in common with Gwich’in activists than I first thought; we had a common enemy. The ANWR issue isn’t isolated. Climate change is already affecting life in my hometown through wildfires, unusually warm winters, and perceivable changes in our ecosystems, all of which will worsen if the carbon underneath the Coastal Plain is allowed into the atmosphere. Though my privilege allows me a degree of separation, my fight for a more sustainable Alaska is intimately tied to the Gwich’in fight for food security and cultural survival. Privileged people are often faced with a choice: do we use an opportunity to engage with underprivileged communities to make genuine, long lasting commitments and relationships, or do we write it on our resume and move on? As I was growing up in Fairbanks, moving out of Alaska was seen as a mark of success. But climate change and global ecological collapse have forced me to reexamine my own relationship to the place I grew up. If one thing was absolutely clear to me during my time at the Gwich’in Gathering, it was that the Gwich’in

weren’t going anywhere. If I am to be effective as an advocate and organizer for environmental justice, I must strive to have as strong of a commitment to my home as the Gwich’in have for theirs. This is why I plan to move back to Alaska after graduation: to build a brighter future with the people and land I call home. “I think part of the way that we check our own privilege is by recognizing that we have an obligation to be stewards and protectors of the places that we live, and do it in a respectful and meaningful way,” says Princess.13 “Wherever you live, you have to recognize that you are stepping on Indigenous lands that have a very deep-rooted history and ecology.” 14 Who are the Indigenous people of the land? What is the history of colonization and extractive industries in your area? Where does your water and electricity come from? These are basic questions environmental stewards should be able to answer. I began to see the fight to protect ANWR as also a symbolic one, championed by those who are imagining a better way of living with nature. Gwich’in resistance to oil development is part of an international movement of Indigenous peoples protecting their home and demanding that all of us think more critically about our own connection with Mother Earth. The Kari-Oca Declaration, signed in 2012 by Indigenous peoples from around the world, is clear in its directive: “We must focus on sustainable communities based on indigenous knowledge, not on capitalist development.” 15 t

In my last few days at the Gwich’in Gathering, I stayed with Sarah James, an elder in Arctic Village who has been at the forefront of the fight since the beginning. Plaques and awards commending her environmental advocacy line the walls of her small cabin. An old wooden frame held a picture of her shaking hands with Bill Clinton, reminding me of how long the fight has lasted. She warmly welcomed me to her cabin, cooking me dinner for two nights with the limited provisions she bought with food stamps. I wondered how many dozens of visitors she had hosted in the three decades since the first Gwich’in Gathering. I desperately wanted

to stay. Her statement on the Gwich’in Steering Committee website is somber: “Maybe there are too few of us to matter; maybe people think Indians are not important enough to consider in making their energy decisions. But it’s my people who are threatened by this development. We are the ones who have everything to lose.” 16 As we boarded the plane back to Fairbanks, she handed me a small bag filled with Labrador tea. The sweet, spicy scent of the tundra followed me all the way home. For more than three decades, politician and fossil fuel executives have been weighing the political cost of destroying the livelihood of the Gwich’in against the cash they will make from the oil under the Coastal Plain. To those we say, “No more.” We refuse to buy their story that opening ANWR will guarantee energy security. We refuse to believe the false choice between more oil and a nation without a future. Instead, we will work together to build a world in which no one will question a decision to put Indigenous land, life, and culture before cash. Even as I write, Republicans are pushing a federal budget through Congress that would open ANWR to development. Despite this news, Princess says the Gwich’in are more resolute than ever: “The things that keep me going are seeing my children laugh and smile on the banks of the Yukon River, going to fish camp and pulling king salmon out of the net, and processing that king salmon with my mother and my family. […] There is just so much beauty and blessings around us all the time, and that gives me hope, that keeps me going, that’s my shajol (walking stick). Your generation has a lot on your shoulders but I have faith. You are the innovators, the ones that are going to think outside of the box and create a more sustainable way of living and being.” She smiles. “That gives me hope.” 17 Though I may not have a place where my grandfather’s nose watches over me, I’ve been inspired by those who do to think deeper about my own relationship to Mother Earth, my role in the fight, and my future. As I prepare to graduate and move back to Alaska, I imagine the smell of Labrador tea embracing me on my return. I hope to go back to Arctic Village many times.

VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

Image provided by author

NOTES 1

“Introduction,” Gwich’in Caribou Anatomy, accessed October 22, 2017, http://www.vadzaih.com/introduction. Princess Daazhraii Johnson, interview by Kengo Nagaoka, September 29, 2017, transcript. 3 Gwich’in Steering Committee, “A Moral Choice for the United States: The Human Rights Implications for the Gwich’in of Drill-

ing in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge,” (Report, 2005), 17.

Johnson. 5 ibid.

Ryan Powers, “Beck, Boehner: Arctic Refuge Is A ‘Wasteland,’ Wildlife ‘Couldn’t Care Less’ About Drilling,” ThinkProgress, July

24, 2008.

ibid. 8 “Murkowski, Sullivan Introduce Bill to Allow Energy Production in 1002 Area of Arctic Coastal Plain,” U.S. Senate Committee

on Energy and Natural Resource: Republican News, January 5, 2017. Accessed October 22, 2017, https://www.energy.senate.gov/

public/index.cfm/2017/1/murkowski-sullivan-introduce-bill-to-allow-energy-production-in-1002-area-of-arctic-coastal-plain.

Johnson. 10 ibid. 11 Hilary Moore and Joshua Kahn Russell, Organizing Cools The Planet (Oakland: PM Press, 2011), 19. 12 ibid., 15. 13 Johnson. 14 ibid. 15 Indigenous Peoples Global Conference on Rio+20 and Mother Earth, “Kari-Oca Declaration,” (Declaration, Rio de Janeiro, 2012). 16 David Thompson, “Who We Are,” Gwich’in Steering Committee (blog), September 7, 2016, http://www.gwichinsteeringcommit17

tee.org/whoweare.html.

Johnson.

image provided by author

WRIT LARGE: JANUARY 2019

REDEEM THE TRASH: A LITERACY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Devon Varoz

by WRIT 1622: Advanced Writing Seminar | Professor Matt Hill Originally published in WRIT Large Volume 1 (2012)

I STARTED MY FIRST PLAY ON A HEAVY ROYAL TYPEWRITER:

a family of Spanish immigrants clung to their stories of pure blood and royal lineage, and to superstitions that protected them against the sickness of poverty. The typewriter made works into rocks; I had to rewrite the page if my finger slipped. The curtain rises. The curtain rises. The curtain rises. I wrote A Pride of Novelty Lions in an unfinished basement filled with trash of thrift stores: a radio that played static, a Magnavox record player, a few empty leather briefcases, stacks of the unread classics. I hung a gold picture frame around a cemented window with a crack that let water stain the concrete wall in long brown and red strikes to the floor, swelling the feet of my dresser. On the wall, I wrote, “Superstition is the Poetry of Life—Goethe” in black permanent marker. I locked myself in and waited among the relics; writing was the image. I was accepted to Denver School of the Arts to study Creative Writing. The director was white hair, glasses, plain clothes. She gave us lines from poetry books and we wrote off the page. We wrote on white iMacs with stubborn keyboards and we talked and we made quips. The year passed. I was nauseated by the romantic daydreams and the vocative nature writing and the damn wordplay. I resented the names we recited: Frost, Eliot, Dickinson. VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

I took an AP Language course: posters of period furniture, cubist paintings, taxonomies of teeth, surrounded us as punk records played. Our teacher read from the devotional to begin class. We read refreshingly concrete and thoughtful essays with more than 5 paragraphs like On Dumpster Diving by Lars Eighner and On Keeping a Notebook by Joan Didion. He introduced us to the rhetorical occasion and argument. He helped us present an argument with an appropriate design. I read the style guide he suggested—The Elements of Style—like a philosophy: I packed my typewriter into its black box. I wrote “Rule #17” on white trash bags and filled them with the antecedents of magical thinking. I took the glided frame down and decided writing was a not a ritual or certain kind of nature: it was thought. I began again with empty space, on a processor that allowed me to erase my words. “A hundred visions and revisions”; I liked the white space and I liked writing in CAPS LOCK. I liked everything being STANDARD, being the SAME, having no decoration and no (dis)coloration. That’s the problem with white space; it’s not really empty space. (Strunk &) White Space distracts from the space that is not white. And—I was not canonical or standard. I felt displaced. I couldn’t live in a gilded frame or scrub the stains from the wall; the rain kept leaking through. I could no longer ignore my position: a teenager who dreamt in an unfinished basement, whose mother brought down a plate of 1-minute rice, Kroger green beans, and on-sale chicken breast. I reread the play put away in a copy paper box. Not much was left. I remembered the defective radio that punctuated my scenes with advertisements for toothpastes, soaps, shoe whiteners, and ionized yeast tablets; the daughter who sets her

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hair on fire reading by an oil lamp and dreaming of a different life; the purist mother who recites, “When they still respected good blood, we were the ones with straight teeth.” The family was struggling with nostalgia and romantics, assimilation and whitening, surrounded by the trash of the American Dream. My struggle with writing was there—is here again. I stopped writing and started reading The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again. Andy was famous for turning low culture (commodities) into high culture (art) by hanging prints of the Campbell’s soup cans, and Brillo Soap Pad boxes into the white spaces of galleries. He sold art back to people and forward to the Factory. Andy put the ordinary in a new space using new technology and it transformed; it became available for examination and critique. Reality (became) television. Commodities, logos, advertisements—the everyday classics—became my “real” life’s literature. Advertisements produce meaning where there is only trash, redeemed rich with accessible arguments and visceral poetry produced with the technology of symbols, sounds, and prose. In the future—I thought—I can pretend I’m always watching television to transform the (closest) mundane into the (furthest) meaning. I read on. Critics claimed that Warhol’s skilless-authorless process was the end of art—and, did my definition of literature mean it became gray, common, valueless? My experience struggles to form a coherent definition of literacy—a place to start writing—that is not anti-literate by limiting (readership-authorship into classes) or negating (the greater-lesser value of meaning-making) altogether. I will not try here to claim, as symbol-using animals, who is human and who is trash. Only, I want to let the readers in through the window to steal my unread books.

THE PLACES IN BETWEEN

Maggie Sava

by WRIT 1733: Human Rights / Humans Write | Professor John Tiedemann Originally published in WRIT Large Volume 5 (2016)

SHE WAS AT HOME PLAYING WITH HER FOUR-YEAR-OLD daughter, Jennifer, and her one-year-old son, Paul, when the phone rang. It was the fall of 1974, and her two older children, Randy and Julia, were at school for the day. After settling the kids, she answered the call to find a man on the line. “Hello, Mrs. Atencio. My name is John, and I am a member of the Parent Teacher Association. I am calling you today to discuss a volunteer opportunity.” “Oh, I see. May I ask what the opportunity is exactly?” “Well, as I am sure you are aware, Denver Public Schools have recently begun integration programs that…” She interrupted. “Oh yeah, I have been hearing a lot about that lately.” “Good, good. Well, you see, we need parents to observe the schools in a monitor role to make sure that all students are receiving the appropriate treatment at their new schools. We are reaching VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

out to you because we know how involved you have been in the PTA before, and we need representatives for Hispanic students.” “You don’t understand. Atencio is my married name. I am not Hispanic; my husband is.” “Mrs. Atencio, we are in desperate need of volunteers. We believe that you are especially qualified for this. It is just once a month. We really need your help.” She paused. “Okay, okay. I am happy to help. What do you need me to do?” t

My grandparents, Cheryl and Sam Atencio, met when they were only 18 years old. Cheryl had moved to her parents’ new home in the new upper-middleclass development of Applewood, Colorado, after transferring from Hood College, a women’s college on the East Coast, to the University of Colorado Denver. Her background was about as middle-class as it could get. Initially, her parents bought a new home that was constructed after World War II, but they ended up moving from one suburban town to the next as her dad’s job required. Before Colorado, they lived in New Jersey, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, and Iowa. Meanwhile, Sam’s family settled in southern Colorado and New Mexico during Spanish colonization. Sam was born in Sante Fe shortly before his family moved to Denver to pursue better job opportunities. They settled in one of North Denver’s Hispanic neighborhoods. Cheryl and Sam first saw each other at a bar in North Denver. Cheryl’s friend, who was pregnant at the time, begged her to go out dancing. Cheryl agreed, so they went to Denver and wound up at a rough 3.2 bar, since 18-year-olds could buy 3.2 beer at the time. There, Sam approached Cheryl and asked her to dance. Cheryl refused unless he danced with her pregnant friend first. He obliged, and from that night on, Cheryl and Sam were inseparable. When the two brought up the idea of marriage less than two months later, neither of their families supported the idea. At the time, the proposed union of the teenagers was considered a “mixed marriage.” Sam was even kicked out of his house and forced to stay at the YMCA. Despite the resistance, they wed in 1965, six weeks after they met. Early on, the two had no money. They hopped 14

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from house to house in North Denver, one of their first being a dumpy little two-story house built behind someone else’s lot on Perry Street. Cheryl was always pregnant, so they had to keep moving as they outgrew houses. By the time they found themselves at the house at 3934 Tejon Street, they already had seven-year-old Randy, five-year-old Julia, three-year-old Jenn, and a fourth child on the way. St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, the family’s parish, was down the street from their modest house. Nearby was the fire station and the police station. Police helicopters flew over the neighborhood at all hours of the night, shining their spotlights through the windows in tireless searches. A bar or liquor store could be found on practically every block. Cheryl did not fit into the neighborhood. A fair-skinned, red-haired Norwegian girl with a middle-class background stood out, and the neighbors were suspicious of her until they met Sam. Across 38th Avenue, a busy thoroughfare, was the neighborhood elementary school, Bryant Webster, where Julia and Randy went to school when they were not being bussed to Gust Elementary School. Being Hispanic students in the 1970s, Julia and Randy were sent to a white school across town for half of the day as a result of Denver’s attempt to increase diversity and level the playing field for minority students. Although they were considered Hispanic, the kids did not fit into any category. Being half white and half Hispanic, Randy and Julia were stuck between two worlds. Cheryl cringed when her children returned home to tell stories of how they were called “honky” at Bryant Webster because they had a white mother and how, at Gust, they were referred to as “beaners” because their skin was brown. Fuming on the inside, Cheryl comforted Julia and Randy, explaining to them that those were not nice words and that they should not use them to refer to other people. “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” she would remind them. “But words will never hurt me.” t

Cheryl peered anxiously through the window, watching the sidewalk as the sunlight began to recede. Behind her, one of the babies began to cry, pulling her attention from the glass. She crossed

the living room of the small house on Tejon Street, leaving her perch to check on her babies. She took turns watching the front walk and working on dinner. Finally, she heard the shuffling footsteps of two kids on the front porch and opened the door to find Julia there with a neighbor boy. She was tired from chasing her toddlers around all day. Her fatigue was compounded by frustration when she noticed that the sun had mostly set and the city street was getting darker and darker. She thanked the neighbor boy who walked Julia from the bus stop each night and gave him some change just as Sam’s car pulled into the drive. Sam was coming home from his job at the Department of Transportation to have dinner with his family and rest for a bit before leaving to go to his second job as a valet at a country club. Now that everyone had made it home, Cheryl could serve dinner. The concerns Cheryl had about her daughter’s safety and her difficult school day were not alleviated as she watched Julia struggle to keep her eyes open during dinner. Cheryl questioned why her kids had to be bussed forty-five minutes to a different school every day. Randy and Julia were not even on the same bus schedule. Originally, both kids went to Bryant Webster in the morning and Gust in the afternoon, but when Randy hit third grade, he was forced to change his schedule. While Randy went in the mornings, Julia went in the afternoons, and so he was not there to walk her home at night. After cleaning up after the meal, Cheryl went to the living room, where Sam was resting. Suddenly, she vented. “How much good can they be doing these kids when they drop first-grade girls off at a bus stop two blocks away from their home at night?” “Cher… .” “I mean, think about it. They lose at least an hour every day. Julia is only six! Thank goodness there is that neighbor boy to walk her home.” “I suppose they think they are doing them a service. I mean, they mix in all the students from the other school, so maybe they are getting a better experience. More diversity.” “I hardly think they are getting anything out of this. Heck, I wouldn’t want to be going to either school! You wouldn’t believe what it’s like in Bryant Webster, Sam. It’s terrible. I saw it back when I visited Randy’s second-grade class. Some kids don’t even have shoes to wear!”

“What do you want me to say? Schools are falling apart around us, Cher, and the kids are taking the brunt of it. There are no other options, not since the redistricting from desegregation made us leave Smedly.” “I still can’t believe they made us leave that school. Now the kids have to cross 38th with all that traffic just to get to school. It is so dangerous! That court order completely turned these kids’ life upside down. I just don’t know what to do. How are they supposed to make friends? At which school will they have a chance to play with the other kids? I just don’t think it’s good for them. Especially for Julia. She is so young and so smart. I don’t want her miss out on anything… .” t

At the start of desegregation, the schools needed to accommodate the new students, which required much preparation and training to explain new policies and ensure that they were properly applied. The school board used volunteer parent monitors to make sure that students were accepted into their new classrooms and treated equally by the school. The request made by the Parent Teacher Association for a representative for the Hispanic students was not one that Cheryl could comfortably turn down. She had already headed an effort to restart the PTA at Smedly Elementary, where Randy went before the redistricting. That challenging project made her well aware of the inner workings of the schools and all the help they needed. Like her children, Cheryl went downtown to a new school. Monitors were not allowed to volunteer at their neighborhood institutions, so she was assigned to a poor school that was close to the low-income housing projects near Colfax Avenue and Federal Boulevard. As the acting representative of the Hispanic population at the school, she had to drive there once a month. She observed everything intently, including classes and teacher performances, and filled out special rubrics that were filed at North High School. Cheryl was frustrated by the limitations of her position. As an unwanted visitor, Cheryl knew she could not see what the school was really like day to day. She suspected that teachers and students were on their best behavior during the monthly visits, and she did not have the chance to understand the true climate VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

of the school. Try as she might, she could not get beyond the surface of the situation. Hispanic families were wary of her serving as their spokesperson, and with good reason. She was young and white, and she could not relate to the experiences of the students she was supposed to represent. During her days at the school, she was made aware of the glaring differences between her schooling in a middle-class suburban neighborhood in New Jersey and the urban Denver school in which she found herself. In spite of all the training and preparation the monitor organization provided and her Spanish surname, she never felt as though she had the clout to honestly speak for the students she believed needed stronger support and a better learning environment. Nothing was more frustrating to a young activist dedicated to bettering her community than knowing that she could not really help. She found herself in the same, uncomfortable in-between space her children occupied at school. She was too white to fit in with the Hispanics at the schools, yet she still had a Hispanic family and was a part of the community. Like Randy and Julia, she was often reminded that she did not belong. One day, she was sitting at the back of a classroom observing when she noticed the teacher’s assistant looking her over. When Cheryl looked back at her, the teacher’s assistant said something under her breath in Spanish that made Cheryl blush. She may not have spoken fluent Spanish, but Cheryl had spent enough time in the barrio to know when she was being called a nasty name. She once said, “It was like being a fish out of water.” t

It only made sense that Cheryl would volunteer as an advocate in the schools. Cheryl converted to Catholicism when she married Sam and became fiercely loyal to her faith. The couple served the church community by being on the parish council, kick-starting and running the food bank, and taking donations to be deposited at the bank after mass on Sundays each week. Being a young, poor couple, they knew what hard work meant. They were constantly striving to create better conditions for their growing family. Cheryl and Sam’s civic engagement also extended beyond the walls of the church; they became activists for their neighborhood. Idealistic 16

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and hardworking, Sam and Cheryl were active in every way possible. As they became leaders in their community, their house became a meeting place. Their political work predated the 26th Amendment that lowered the voting age, which meant that they were laboring for the Democratic Party in their part of the city before they could even vote. As their activism increased, they garnered attention as a motivated couple that was excited about the new forms of cultural and political empowerment emerging in a number of different communities. Their own community was in the midst of the Chicano Movement, which offered people a new opportunity for self-identification. Hispanics were tired of being mislabeled and assigned stereotypes. Community leaders were giving Chicanos and Chicanas a voice. Sam and Cheryl saw these leaders speaking from the pulpit of the neighborhood church asking for support such as food donations for migrant workers. As long as it wasn’t okra. They were sick and tired of okra. Eventually, Cheryl and Sam were elected precinct captains, and they attended all important meetings in Denver. They became involved with policy writing and platform organizing. Their dedication had them traveling through the projects to pass out materials and brochures, all with their little ones following along. The campaigns they organized and contributed to even helped elect Pat Schroeder, the first Congresswoman from Colorado. Despite positive political changes and momentum within their community, Cheryl and Sam found their neighborhood becoming less safe and less welcoming. Big changes were occurring in the house on Tejon Street. The family welcomed a fifth child, Noah, into the world in the fall of 1975. The house was proving to be too small. Julia, Randy, and Jennifer had to sleep in a room in the basement, while Paul and Noah slept together in a room upstairs near the master bedroom. They were outgrowing the house, and the state of the neighborhood was a heavy toll on them. Across the street was a halfway house, and the helicopters still kept them awake all night. Two blocks down, a law office that served the poor community had been blown up by a splinter group of anarchists whose graffiti littered the neighborhood declaring, “Free Kiki.” Even the family house was not immune from the dangers of the neighborhood.

On one occasion, Cheryl and Sam woke to Julia and Randy banging on their bedroom door early on a Saturday morning. As they drowsily answered their door, the kids excitedly whispered, “Mom. Dad. There is a strange man sleeping on our couch.” Confused and alarmed, Cheryl herded the kids into the bedroom as Sam grabbed a baseball bat to confront the intruder. A heavily drugged man awoke at the prodding of the wooden bat, unwilling to leave his place on the couch. Sam had to call the police. When the policeman arrived, he assumed that the drugged man was a friend who had stayed over after a wild party. “That’s ridiculous!” Cheryl exclaimed. “You think we would throw a party here? And then call the police to get rid of the guests?” After much convincing, the officer finally believed that the intruder was a stranger and that he needed to be removed. Cheryl and Sam found out later that there was no follow-up from the police because the intruder was convicted and imprisoned for murder. The fear and painful awareness left by that incident led Cheryl and Sam to realize that no matter what good they were doing in their community, they could not let their family pay the price by raising their children in a dangerous place. After spending more than an hour on the bus traveling between schools, and then coming home to an unsafe neighborhood, the children were going to struggle to thrive in school. Without the means to go to the private elementary school on the University of Denver campus, Julia would not be challenged enough academically. As long as she kept bouncing between Bryant Webster and Gust, she would have to make up the study time she missed while riding the bus. Bussing could not address the young students’ needs, and the family could no longer carry the burden placed on them. Their decision to leave the city was affirmed by a visit from a close family friend and Catholic nun, Sister Jane. She sat them down and advised them that their place was not in the barrio. They had to continue God’s work by raising their children in a healthy environment. Cheryl soon realized that the visit from Sister Jane was a gift from God, and because of a promotion Sam received at work—a second blessing after Sister Jane’s advice—the family was moved to a safer neighborhood in the suburb of Westminster, Colorado.

At the time, housing equity was still an equal rights issue, and developers needed to demonstrate diversity in new building projects. The Atencios were seen as the perfect way to show such diversity. The builder of the Countryside development eagerly welcomed them into their community. The company bought their house on Tejon Street, taking the impossible-to-sell property off of their hands and making it possible for them to put a down payment on a newly built house in the Fox Meadows neighborhood. The relief they felt in getting the house of their dreams outweighed any frustration they may have had in once again becoming the token minority. One night, before the official closing, the family took the keys to their new home and camped out on the floor. They all felt as though they were in a mansion. They roamed the four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and huge yard in which the kids could play freely. They prepared beds on the floor and lay down to sleep. They were struck by the calm that fell over the home at night and the stars they spied in the sky through the window— the same stars they had never been able to see in the heart of the city. “Mom, mom, mom! Look at the sky! It’s so pretty! Is that what space looks like?” “Yes, Julia. Those are constellations out there. See that one shaped like a spoon? That is the Big Dipper. Isn’t this lovely, Sam? I don’t think the kids even knew what stars were before!” “It’s beautiful. There aren’t even street lamps out here. I feel like we moved to the country. It is too quiet though. How are we supposed to sleep with all this quiet?” “I can’t get over how much space there is either. And did you see all the neighborhood kids out playing today? They looked like they were our kids’ ages. It is so nice to see kids out in the neighborhood.” “I bet they probably know some good babysitters too.” Cheryl chuckled. “You’re right. I can’t wait to invite all of the parents over for drinks. You know, I bet there are a lot of young families out here. With the kids and all. And they have a neighborhood pool. Oh, Randy, Julia, Jenn, and Paul are going to love that. And Noah, too, once he is bigger.” VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

“It’ll be great. I can already tell.” Of course, money was still an issue. They had to scrape it together where they could, not wasting anything. Every drop of gas was precious. Shower time had to be provisioned among the seven of them, with close attention to the use of hot water. Julia still could not attend advanced math classes because there was no way to travel to a different school every afternoon. Nonetheless, they weren’t fretting the challenges ahead of them just yet: their budget, the long commutes to work, and Randy’s appointments at the Colorado Hearing and Speech Center in Southeast Denver. Rather, they all anticipated that spring, when they would be fully moved into their new home in the suburbs, where Randy, Julia, Jennifer, Paul, Noah, and eventually Jill and Haileigh would be able to play and explore in the yard and throughout the neighborhood with the other kids. Life was bound to change, and a family that was used to growing pains knew that it was part of the deal. Their Hispanic friends and neighbors from Tejon, with whom they would play cards and drink beer on weekends, stopped visiting. Cheryl worried that her friends believed that the family had sold out by moving to the suburbs. Of course, they still came for baptisms, communions, and other important family parties, but it was just not the same. Cheryl and Sam also found a huge difference in community activism. In the city, anyone with an interest and a willingness to work was accepted to the cause and could quickly climb the ladder. Out in the suburbs, there were fewer organizations, and involvement was more competitive because everyone wanted to give their free time to volunteer in the schools, churches, and food banks. Cheryl and Sam’s political life changed as well. Two of the most adamant young Democrats in North Denver left the party in the wake of the Roe v. Wade court ruling, when they were told that they were not true Democrats if they did not believe in abortion. Their faith led them to be shut out, and they were forced to adapt once more. After adjusting to a hectic urban life, Cheryl found returning to the suburbs truly bizarre. It took a while to get used to the free time; however, she soon learned to embrace her new lifestyle as a stay-at-home mom like all the other moms in the neighborhood. They had a babysitting co-op, and Cheryl and Sam and their kids all found friends 18

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their own age. It was dreamlike for Cheryl—an extended vacation from the hardship and need she had witnessed in Denver. The family became outside observers of the transformations happening in the city, experiencing it all from a commuter’s distance. t

Today, my grandmother, Cheryl Atencio, is still passionate and spirited. She is a loving matriarch. She leads her large family of seven children and thirteen grandchildren and our combination of fair-skinned redheads and olive-skinned, darkhaired cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. In Countryside, our family is still growing and changing: some kids leaving, some moving back, and now some grandchildren growing up in that very same neighborhood. For us grandkids, we have always known that we belong together, and the idea that we all came from a mixed marriage would never have occurred to us. However, my mom, Julia, and my grandma still take occasional trips to Denver, which bring back memories of those tumultuous times and give them an awareness of the many changes their communities have undergone. t

Cheryl gasped. “Julia, Julia, slow down. Do you remember when we used to live here on Perry Street? Probably not. We lived in that house behind someone’s back yard, behind their plot. It was before the house on Tejon. Goodness, do you see that house? It is huge! I have never seen such a large house on Perry Street before. But, you know, even down at the Sunnyside projects they are tearing down the plots and building an up-and-coming neighborhood.” “Wow. Look, it’s for sale. Let’s stop and grab a flyer. Maybe they have an open house, too.” “Oh, do you think Maggie will be upset if we are late to pick her up? It is almost noon.” “Nah, she won’t care. She has things to do on campus anyway. Let’s take a look. They must have torn down one of the old houses. I think this new one takes up two of the original plots.” “You know, your dad wrote a grant once to tear down some of the dilapidated houses. He wanted to use the space for the whole community, though.

Maybe a community garden or playground or something. He just wanted to open up more space for everyone. It was so cramped here, you wouldn’t believe it.” “That must have been a long time ago. I don’t think I remember that.” “It might have been before you were born. Or you could have been a toddler.” “I wish I remembered that. What I do remember is taking the bus for what seemed like forever.

That was terrible. You know, Maggie still jokes about how I can’t spell some words. One time, she asked how to spell “squirrel,” and I just said, ‘squaerrl.’ It’s too bad I missed all those phonics lessons.” Cheryl paused. “Yeah, that was a crazy time for us. At least we had the chance to move. I mean, the time to do those things is when you are young. Things get complicated as you get older. Do as much as you can when you have the energy and the time. That’s what I say.”

IMAGES PROVIDED BY AUTHOR TO ACCOMPANY ESSAY

Julia with her Aunt Margie for her first Communion, 1974.

Cheryl’s PTA portrait.

Countryside neighborhood.

Paul, Randy, Julia, and Jennifer in their Tejon house, 1975.

VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

Meet Our Authors KENGO NAGAOKA

written for volume 7 in 2018

Kengo Nagaoka was born in Fairbanks, Alaska, to Japanese immigrant parents. He is a senior at DU and is an international studies major with minors in leadership studies and music. After graduation, he is planning to move back to Alaska to work on environmental justice and climate change issues. Kengo loves biking, playing music, and being in nature.

DEVON VAROZ

updated for volume 8

Devon Varoz is an award-winning and arts-endorsed copywriter based in Tucson, AZ. After graduating from DU, he wrote for large local publications and built his own business as a freelance writer. Now, he writes advertising copy for niche businesses. There is no outside text.

MAGGIE SAVA

updated for volume 8

Maggie Sava is a recent graduate of the University of Denver, having received a bachelor’s in Art History and English in June of 2018. She was involved in both departments during her undergraduate studies and pursued both of her passions by working for DU’s art collections and consulting in the writing center. She is also proudly connected to WRIT Large both as a former contributing author and as a former student editor. While studying abroad in France during her junior year, she fell in love with traveling internationally and experiencing new cities. So, after studying in her native city of Denver, she uprooted herself and moved to London where she is currently completing a master’s degree in Contemporary Art Theory at Goldsmiths, University of London. Lately, she has been enjoying the countless art exhibitions and events London has to offer, spending copious amounts of time on the tube, and struggling to say chips instead of French fries and crisps instead of chips. 20

WRIT LARGE: JANUARY 2019

Submit Your Work

We welcome not only essays and research papers but also scientific and business reports, creative nonfiction, multimodal projects, and more. If accepted for publication, your work will appear in 2020’s Volume 9.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: Texts may be submitted electronically (by students or by instructors on behalf of students, with their permission) to the Editorial Board at writlarge.du@gmail.com by June 15, 2019.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES: • Submissions must be the original, previously unpublished work of the authors (group submissions are also accepted). • Authors must assume full responsibility for the accuracy and documentation of their submission, and a bibliography must be included, when appropriate. • Authors selected for publication must agree to work with an editorial team (of faculty and students) throughout the Fall 2019 quarter and to participate in all editorial activities. • Please limit each submission to 20 double-spaced pages or fewer.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We are very grateful to Doug Hesse and the DU University Writing Program for funding and supporting this project. We would like to thank all of our present and former colleagues who have generously contributed to WRIT Large over the past eight years.

FACULTY EDITORS For Nagaoka (vol. 7 / 2018): Megan Kelly For Varoz (vol. 1 / 2012): Liz Drogin and Juli Parrish For Sava (vol. 5 / 2016): Allan Borst and April Chapman-Ludwig

2018–2019 EDITORIAL BOARD April Chapman-Ludwig, David Daniels, Megan Kelly, Heather Martin, Juli Parrish, & LP Picard

VOLUME 8, ISSUE 1

WL R E T R O S P E C T I V E ( 8 .1) WRITING THE SELF

JANUARY 2019