brio. Spring 2017 // The Disturbance Issue

NYU's undergraduate comparative literature journal

vol. 10, no. 2

the disturbance issue

/BREE-oh/, noun vivacity, spirit, an individual energy.

The discipline of Comparative Literature is based on the assumption that the study of single texts and cultures is enriched by a knowledge of the texts and cultures surrounding them. It views literature from a broad and inclusive perspective in which philosophy, anthropology, history, language, and literary theory come together, and where the visual arts, theatre, and modem media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to embody those ideas.

Brio is a student-founded publication that combines literary criticism with fictive works and visual art. In an effort to represent the wide spectmm of discourses that serve as the foundation of comparative study, the journal accepts submissions from any source and in any language.

CONTENTS

Faculty Spotlight Three Poem Collection Purgatory A Journey Through My Library O Universo A berto The Deer People Never Fail to Repeat Themselves ‘Having Hardly Left The Film Language of Hiroshima Mon Amor Beowolf and Seth: A Note in Christian Typology The Chicano Family Romance Three Movements Whispered to my lover Soneto del Cuervo Stalingrad and Nationalism On The Creation of The World Four New York Poems

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(above) Beth Sattur

The lights of the city have always deeply fascinated me, and they seemed to be bleeding into the sky. Freshman year had Just ended and my friends and I were having one last sleepover. I glanced out the window and saw the skyline, perfectly clear from the 25th floor. This picture captures how I felt gazing lovingly at the skyline of a place that had been my home for a year, on the eve of the night I left it. The technique I used for this image is one taught to me by a fellow photographer, Julia Moses, who explained that if you start with the lens at I8mm and move it to 55mm immediately after taking the shot (or vice versa), it will produce the bleeding-lights technique that is seen in this photo. To me, it represents the beauty of New York City's famous lights, which I consider myself very lucky to be able to see every evening. I hope everyone who loves the city as much as I do sees the work andfeels a sense ofpeace and happiness.

FACULTY SPOTLIGHT

INTERVIEW: Professor Timothy Duffy Duffy's research focuses du the Renaissance lilerary iniagiiialion, devotional practice, and spatial science and philosophy, focusing especially on the concept of antiworldliness in the Renaissance. His current Iwok project, "The Anti-Worldly Renaissance: Lvric Technologies of Place in Early Modern Writing ” explores the link between devotional practice, spatial philosophy, and eschatology in lyric poetryfrom Petrarch Io the English Melaphvsicals. He also works on comparative epic studies, geocriticism, the hisloiy of cartography, and lyric theory.

How has the discipline of Comparative Literature changed since your first year here?

I don't know if—being in the discipline of Comparative Literature for only a few years now—that there have been any seismic changes, but certainly there were certain changes coming from my background in English Departments. I have always been struck by how polyglot the Renaissance mind was. Their imagination was always rattling with so many different languages. My goal, even when I was in the English Department, was to replicate that kind of polyglot sensibility, and so I was always working in a comparative mode. What I find so exciting about the field of Comparative Literature, especially how it’s done at NYU, is that it’s not only about the linguistic boundaries, or the kind of “old-school” comparative mentality where you’re trying to track something across a lengthier period of time and through different nations (a tradition for which 1 have great respect and participate in myself),it’s also about navigating the boundaries between philosophy, theory, and literature, often transgressing disciplinary and historical boundaries entirely to chase down a particular topic or question. I find immense excitement in the freedom to play and I think it actually gets a scholar closer to the world of Renaissance writers. NYU has a very distinct identity as a powerhouse of literary theory and of Renaissance stuies and it is thrilling to work among that energy.

Many scholars often feel immense pressure around the idea of publication, many writers and academics tell me this is because of the permanent nature of publication. Meanwhile you are a published scholar as well as a poet; what advice would you give to the shy writer or speaker?

A very prolific scholar at the University of Virginia used to say, “I turn to writing when I’m tired of reading”, meaning that you write because you’ve finished reading...for the moment. And so it seems writing is always in dialogue with reading—^and because of that, anything you write is always going to be reflective of what you were reading at the particular time when you wrote it.

And so if you didn’t look back—a decade later—and see the distance between where you were then and where you are now, it would be dreadful. You wouldn’t see the multiple interventions in your life and thinking. There will • •• 5

always be—just because of the nature of the way peer review works and the nature of the competitiveness of academia—people who don’t see things the way you see them—and there will also be people who are hostile to the way you see things. And so having a “responsible” sense of what you’re trying to say and being able to be comfortable with what you’re trying to say will allow you to defend, with respect to the conversation around you, your own voice. You don’t, I think, ever want to apologize for what you thought—any thought you had in good faith, at least—because you can always say, “I’ve moved on from that phase”. May of the most exciting scholars do just that; they revise their thinking.

Being afraid of writing in general, I think is much more of the issue than being afraid of publishing. This more often plagues academics and any kind of writer—and when we address the fear of writing we can devour the publication fear as well. You should always check in with your younger self who always wanted to do this—I’m always checking in with the 15 or 16 year old version of myself who would have been grateful to be writing and publishing no matter how stressful it might seem. It helps to connect with that energy (and even joy) in the middle of a difficult project.

You have chosen to teach a class entitled "Lyric Transgressions". I think you've elected to teach this course at just the right time in American history. What do these moments of transgression mean for the history of art? How are transgressions important now, especially literary ones?

When the course was actually planned it was in the relative calm of February 2016. But my original goal was to reflect how poets reading very deeply into their traditions. They are always being haunted by voices, even voices they would rather not hear. For example, we have poets now, as we always have, who are reading backwards and getting inspiration from Anglosaxon poetry, they’re reading Renaissance poetry and classical poetry. I wanted to design something where a student could actually follow these key moments in lyric history. It has an almost insanely bold trajectory, traveling from 14“‘ century Italy and 15' ** century France all the way to 2015. 1 really wanted to take up this challenge: to move beyond a sort of “periodization” to a kind of deep history of lyric poetry. I’m always obsessed with this question of histories of the lyric and new histories of the lyric. Now, in terms of meditating on the question of what this [literary] “transgression” looks like, the lyric moment shows what can happen in solitary reflection or pause or “self-care” or “processing”. I don’t know for instance that I, standing where we are standing in 2017, think that the work of this kind of poetic transgression will ever be enough—^the much more progressive act in the current moment would be to cook a meal for a friend, to check up on neighbors, to make sure that the more vulnerable people among us arc being taken care of and asking yourself what you can do. But in those [selfreflective] moments that follow that and in those moments of self-care or relative rest and contemplation, those are the moments where these poetic • •• 6

utterances become important. For example, there used to be an obsession with documenting the death of poetry in the early 90s, but now I think we know that we may be living in a fertile age for poetry. We are living in the golden age of the micro-press, the chapbook, the reading series, the literary journal. Sure, they are all cash strapped and they scramble for readers, as they always have, but the scene is much more vibrant in many more places than it was even a decade or two ago. Still, we know It’s not enough to merelycontemplate, but it’s not enough not to, either. Contemplation in the reading (and writing) of poetry can be a necessary companion to activism, transgression, and resistance. And, as people, it is always helpful to have other voices in our heads.

You are a member of the Donne Society and a widely known Donne scholar. What can you tell us about your 2019 addition to SEE Studies in English Literature, "Intimacy Unbound: Epistolary Copulation in Donne's Verse Letters"? How does it relate to your ongoing work?

That was a very long percolating essay. The sense of copulation I mean— and I make this very clear early on—is in the sense of St. Ambrose’s term separatos copulal, which is the idea that the epistle can actually bring together separate people. I was interested in Donne and his early verse letters to male friends in that [the copulation] is understood not just as a metaphor but an actual virtual experience of the lyric, which through a sacramental and devotional lexicon, allowed Donne to actually believe that his body trough the work of the lyric could combine with those of his friends—and so he is meditating in a really wonderful way on friendship and intimacy in the Renaissance. I’m interested in the way that lyric poetry creates virtual space that makes certain fantasies happen and most of those fantasies have to do with a direct connection with the ancient past. I spent a lot of time with Du Bellay's Les Antiquitez de Rome, where he is creating a trans-historical space, engaging with the historic ruins of Rome...I’m not only interested in explaining the “influences” of lyric poetry— though I spend a lot of time trying to track those down too—but I really want to get at the marrow of the places the lyric wants to take the reader—because we know for example, when Petrarch is writing on Horace he is imagining himself running through the woods with him. They had a model of reading and of writing where to engage with a text is to have a virtual experience across temporal boundaries. It is similar to what people felt and some still feel reading sacred texts. I try to listen to the passions of Renaissance writers and see where they lead me.

We received a high volume of Spanish poetry this semester, which we are thrilled to publish and have our audience critically engage with. What can you offer about the role Spanish poetry and literature has had in Western Academia?

Until recently, Renaissance scholars in this country would pay a lot of attention to Latin, Greek, French, and Italian texts, but Spanish was often very under-considered which is ridiculous given Spain’s formative role in almost every literary form in the period. The academic consideration of Spanish Renaissance poetry outside of the confines of a Spanish department has been really expanding in the last few decades. I’ve tried to be a part of that by always including Spanish-language poets such as Sor Juana Ines De La Cruz, Juan Boscan, Garcilaso de la Vega, Francisco de Quevedo, and Luis de Gongora on my syllabi. I think we are in the middle of a Sor Juana “moment”, not just because of the fantastic Canal Once series. Speaking more broadly and in the current political climate, as American scholars or scholars working in America, our hemispheric identity of what it is to be “American”-which is, by necessity, understood in the linguistic sense as involving the interplay ofthe English, Spanish, Portuguese and French languages, as well as a network of indigenous languages—is something we must constantly revisit. We have now, in our politics, an almost fanatical and destructive obsession with borders. We must remember that hemispheric identity in our institutional and intellectual practice.

We also must attend to, as comparatists, humans, and scholars, the many different languages and cultures that feed the imagination of our objects of inquiry, wherever they find themselves (and wherever we find ourselves, too).

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Three Poem Collection

by Rebecca Aaron

ARENA La playa es mas agua que arena pero los pies no pueden mojarse si el proposito es alejarse de la terca tierra morena

SAND The beach is more water than sand butfeet must not get wet if the purpose is to escape from the stubborn brown earth

Los Pescadores nadan en agua helada corren pa salvar su hogar de alga esperando que el pescador saiga la intencion todavia congelada

The fishermen swim the icy water running to save their home of algae waiting for thefisherman to get out the intention stillfrozen For this reason / don't enter the waves It's not my boundary to cross Like he crossed my boundary heart and song, better each alone

Por eso no me meto en las olas No es mi frontera para traspasar Como el traspaso mi bienestar corazon y cancion, mejor solas

The uncontaminated water is beautiful The sand will never be able to mark my footprint

El agua no contaminada es bella La arena nunca podra marcar mi huella

A PRINCETON JUNCTION Casi no puedo respirar por haber corrido a la estacion del tren y como siempre, el tren esta retrasado y ahora tengo veinte minutos para encontrar algo de comer.

Por fin es tiempo de abordar el tren y estoy feliz de haber encontrado un postre y un cafe.

Vengo cansadisima pero estoy determinada a quedarme despierta Iodo el viaje.

El momento en que salimos de la estacion hace que el viaje valga la pena. El horizonte reemplaza los edificios por manojos de arboles, y cuando solo es eso to que ves, el tiempo pasa mas despacio.

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Faltan quince minutos para Hegar y por fin, el bebe a mi lado dejo de llorar y el hombre de atras, dejo de masticar el chicle como una vaca. Tuve que poner mi maleta en otro vagon y debo encontrarla ya.

Siempre me quejo que el viaje es largo pero esta vez, me parecio corto y quise quedarme sentada aunque mis companeros de asiento estuvieran molestos. El lunes me reunire con este asiento.

A T PRINCETON JUNCTION I can barely breathe after running to the train station and like always, the train is delayed and now I have twenty minutes to find something to eat.

Finally it's time to board the train and I'm happy to havefound a pastry and coffee.

I’m exhausted but determined to stay awake the entire ride.

Thai moment we get out the station makes the trip worth it. The horizon of buildings is replaced by bundles of trees, and when that is all you see, time passes slowly.

Onlyfive minutes until arrival andfinally, the baby next to me stopped crying and the man behind, stopped chewing his gum like a cow. I had to put my suitcase in another car and I better go find it.

I always complain the trip is too long but this time, it seemed short and I wanted to stay sitting even though my seatmates were annoying. At least 1 will reunite with this seat on Monday.

AL OESTE El se fue en su coche a la costa donde no hay inviemo nunca hay nieve

y la lluvia es escasa.

La canetera se hizo sin fin La noche triste el coche vacio

y su corazon abierto listo para querer a alguien mas...

donde caminaba y exploraba, la ciudad donde yo logre mi ninez mi adolescencia... porque ella estaba alii

El sabi'a que esa ciudad, donde tuve que parar y llenar el tanque... era mi casa, donde nacl, donde todavia vive mi madre donde siempre regresare

para crear recuerdos... que ya no me pertenecen como su tiempo ya no me pertenece.

El seguia y seguia y no le importaba

TO THE H'ES T He left in his car to the coast where there's no winter there's never snow and the rain is scarce.

The road was made endless The sad night the empty car and his heart open ready to want someone else...

where I was bom. where still my mother lives where I will always return - He went on and on and didn 't care where he walked and explored. the city where I reached my childhood my adolescence... because she was there to create memories... that no longer belong to me as your time no longer belongs to me.

He knew that city where I had to stop andftll my tank was my home.

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Purgatory

by Kiersten Blake

The lone brown eyes of my sister pieree through the dimly lit room. Her body forms a small ball as if to cup the tears streaming down her cheeks. As I approach her in consolation, I hear the wind whistling through the trees. The closer I get, the farther away she seems, so much so that my hand on her shoulder sends a shock up her spine that causes her to cringe. I let my hand slip away and allow myself to return to my place. She never leaves the comer unless the Madam tells her there is work to be done. When my sister decides to stir, she unfurls from her dormant state to reveal her shapely breasts and voluptuous hips, making her seem more human despite the blank stare she carries. On these days, I watch as she pulls on the knee-high boots and a short skirt that the Madam gifts to each one of us, our uniform for the long nights ahead. I remember this from when I was twelve and she was eighteen.

But now that 1 am eighteen, I understand. I understand that one does not need to be bound by something tangible. Like my sister whom I never saw after that night. It is strange how clearly I remember the way she sat there almost as if she were chained to the wall, even though there was no metal to physically restrain her. For me and for her, the chains that bound us were the debt we owed, the normal flat sum of 40,000€'. For us, for all my sisters, the debt had to be payed off by the long nights we spent standing on the sidewalk of the Strada Statale 7 Quater-, shivering in the cold, a battalion of us in our uniforms, each one of us waiting for the cars that would pick us up and drive us to the beds that would house us alongside their owners for the night. No matter how long or hard I worked, the debt was an insurmountable obstacle that never seemed to lessen. I soon turned bitter towards the work I did with every fiber of my being. Although I knew that if I were to run away, I would be caught and chopped to pieces by the cutlass’ like another one of my sisters one sunny November morning. Even if we did not try to run away, the arms and hands that caressed any one of us at night could just as easily smother us amongst the covers or put a bullet through our heads. Fate is fate. But the way I see it is that it is better to rest in peace amongst cloud-like pillows when I meet my Creator. If I left this Earth, no one would cry for me, not the Madam"**, and not my sisters.

> “Escaping tlie human traffickers in Italy.” in the FT Seasonal Appeal (YouTube, 03 Dec. 2015): There have been reports of various amounts that are demanded from the girls when they arrive, but the highest has been to,OCX) euros and the lowest 30,000 euros.

2 A state highway between Lazio and Campania that passes by one of Southern Italy’s small towns, Castel Volturno in the province of Caserta. ’ A short sword with a slightly curved blade. * “Trafficking Terms” (Shared Hope International, NA): Madams are "older womQe(]n who [(manage] a brothel, escort service or other prostitution establishment...”

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More and more sisters come each day, so there is never a sense of loss— only a sense of claustrophobia. The House, a dingy, dilapidated, yellow building that has become my home was once an old brothel that closed when institutionalized prostitution became illegal in Italy in 1958’. Now, it has been made into an apartment that holds me and my sisters in a tiny two bedroom space. The locks that once were open at all hours of the day are now locked from the inside®. But at least here I can try to find some solace. Sometimes I catch my tear-streaked reflection in the same window like my shapely sister did when I was twelve. After she left, I never really cared to learn the other sisters’ names. This way I could continue to do my work. This way I did not have to admit to the shame I felt for my body, for myself,’ and for them.^ I work because one day I will be freed, and when that day comes I will return to Nigeria and kiss my mom and dad, hug my grandparents, and savor the boli and grilled fish dishes with roasted plantains, spicy tomatoes, and palm oils—none of which are in Italy—^until I grow fat. Until then I must not anger the Madam and keep my family from knowing the truth of what my occupation here is—it would pain them to know.

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold And she's buying a stairway to heaven.

When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed With a word she can get what she came for.

Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven^.

It is nighttime now and as I drift off to sleep wedged between my sisters’ bodies, my mind wanders back to my village in Nigeria. I remember the egfr *® 5 Silvia Marchetti, “The Rise in DIY Prostitution in Italy” (OZY.coin, 05 Oct. 2016): In Italy, institutionalized prostitution such as brothels and whorehouses were made illegal in 1958, but prostitution itself was not made illegal—as long as the woman had official documentation stating her residence in Italy. « Shared Hope International: See ‘Brothel (a/k/a Cathouse or Whorehouse)’, “Most brothels have security measures to prevent attacks by other criminals or provide a warning if law enforcement are nearby. The security is two sided-to keep the women and children in, as well as robbers out. The places often are guarded (and open) 24 hours a day, but some have closing times in which the victims are locked in from the outside.” In reversal, the house is now locked from the interior since it has been converted into an apartment (the individual doors have locks). " “Nigerian Connection 1”: From an anonymous interview with a victim in Castel Volturno who says, “I am not happy with myself I am not happy with my body. I am not happy w ith the things I do anymore. Because I am not comfortable with this job.”

8 “Dissociative Disorders: Wliat is dissociation?”(Mind.org.uk., Jul. 2016): Dissociative disorders can become a problem when, “it becomes a far more common experience and ... ^becomes)] the main way you deal with stressful experiences.”

9 Led Zeppelin, “Led Zeppelin Lyrics: Stairway To Heaven” (AZlyrics.com, NA) *O NaijaOptimist,“Some Animal And Bird Names In Yoruba” in the ktairaland Forum (Nairaland, 06 Mar. 2015): According to NaijaOptimist, ^gd means sparrow in Yoruba.

and their soft twitters that woke me up to yet anotlier day as a child. A child, I am still a child as the Madam says. She is the mother of the House and my sisters and I are the children that she must discipline or else the Juju will punish us for our ^se, our sins. She tells us that we took an oath that bound us to her and to the gods, so we must listen to her or else we will be cursed. I am morally cursed if I sleep with a man, and I am cursed by the Madam if I don’t. It is either I get home to Nigeria or I don’t. Black or white. I do not want to chose either, so I am stuck in the middle contemplating between climbing the stairway up or down. My parents’ dream of having a better life, a European life, still lives within me. But I know I am naive to think tliat elsewhere will be better. My eyes close and I finally drift off to sleep.

The bright red droplets ooze from the burning cut on my hand. I bit my lip too hard, I can taste the blood from where my teeth have siuiken in. The tall Juju priest, with the shard that cut me still in his hand, towers over the flames that spit sizzling hot droplets as he also plops in pieces of my finger nails. My clipped threads of pubic hair wrap themselves around his ladle. My heart continues to skip beats as I anticipate what is to come next. Straightening up, his spine popping like the fire, he pours the contents of the stirring pot into a rusted tin cup—something I don’t remember him doing at the shrine before 1 left for Europe. 1 dream that as he hands me the tin Adesanmi * ’ closes her hands around mine, and pushes the tin towards my lips. I shut my eyes, squeezing them until I can see stars. The hot liquid scalds my tongue on the way down my throat making my eyes water as I open them. The priest snuffs out the fire. The dark room seems to swallow me whole because I can’t make out where my hand stops and the smoke starts, where the curve of my lips ends and where the cup begins, an endless, horrific cycle. What once was a recollection of the oath that sealed this fate has turned into a nightmare.

In my village, the people believe that to break a Juju oath means death \ * so now I await my Judgement Day, to face the consequence of my decisions here with the Madam. Back then, I did not know that this fate would include disgracing my body. I was told that I would go to a good school and attend university in Europe—exactly where, I did not know—but Adesanmi, the closest

“ Mintayo, “Lists Of Yoruba Names And Their English Meaning” in the Nairaland Fmm (Wairaland, 05 Nov. 2013): For more Yoruba names see the Nairaland Forum response entered by Mintayo.

“Nigerian Connection I”: For more informations see “People & Power - Magic and Murder” on Al Jazeera (YouTube, 24 Nov. 2010); The use of Juju is drastically different from the way Human Trafficking is conducted in America; therefore, leading to less overall violence within the House. Nevertlieless, the same system of gang related groups conducting both sex and drug trafficking to accrue monetary wealth was the same.

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of our family-friends recommended the program. My mother always believed that God had a way of guiding us through life, so she never questioned the validity of this job or the trustworthiness of her closest friend. But if God is willing to let me stay and struggle in Italy, 1 will struggle * ’ as it is my duty to take care of my family’^ now that I am here. This is not what I have come to do.

I am lost.

There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure 'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.

In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings.

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.

Pinching myself, 1 hear the egd again; this time I am not at home on my cot, but in the House where the tiny birds are twittering outside of the window. Six years later, 1 have grown accustomed to the way of life in the House. Adesanmi, Madam, each man that lies with me, they all want to use me. We trusted Adesanmi, she was a close family-friend, but we should have heeded her name, the crown profits me, she was the Judas that lurks in each of my sisters tales ■.

And as for the Madam, she has increased our enourmous debt with the addition of food, rent, and clothing charges. 1 am her most prized possession, she would never let me go that easily. The men? I do not know what drives them, but I do know that 1 am trapped. 1 am trapped between a Heaven and Hell; purity and chastity on the one hand, sin and fornication on the other. .... There's a feeling I get when I look to the west, And my spirit is crying for leaving. In my thoughts I have seen rings ofsmoke through the trees.

And the voices of those who stand looking.

The cold air hits the back of my legs as I shuffle back and forth to keep warm. With each step, the plastic boots squeak as if brand new even though they are years old. At least the noise keeps me company. It is almost eleven o’clock and the roads are quieter than usual. My other sisters have all been taken to homes or hotels or motels, a bed, until I am the only one that is left. The pills that the Madam gave me are starting to wear off ...the thought of the nighttime darkness is no longer calm and soothing, but agitating and scary. So I pace back “Nigerian Connection I”: See quote by Tina, If God says I will stay, i will stay. If God says no, I won’t.” *'■ Ibid.: An anonymous victim from the streets of Castel Volturno says. You must pay.

There is an agreement...It is dangerous to talk about. Because 1 don’t want my family to suffer, because I love them so much. Let me say I carry the cross for them just like Jesus Christ.”

15 “Nigerian Connection 11”: The economic disparity in Nigeria encourages the practice of people either participating in the transportation and housing of the victims or joining drug gangs. , , , 15

and forth to pass the time. I trip on a patch of weeds growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. BuhBum BuhBum BuhBum. The towering grasses that sprawl behind me bend with the wind—I half expect someone to grab me from the depths of them. BuhBumBuhBumBuhBum. I know I shouldn't, but I take another pill to give me peace of mind. My pacing slows and syncs with my heartbeat.

Buh-Bum Click. Buh-Bum Clack. Buh-Bum Click. Buh-Bum Clack. Turning back around, I spot a car lingering down the road. The Madam will not let us back into the House without anything to show, so I prepare myself for a customer; I prepare myself to accept their garlicky breath and unwanted fingers; I prepare myself for the too hot sheets and temperaments. The windows of the car are tinted so dark that I cannot make out the face of the driver until the window closest to me slowly lowers. It is a woman.

As I come closer, the woman leans out of the window just enough for me to make out the Polizia insignia on her breast pocket. Though she is in disguise, she still asks for my documents’'’ but we both know I have none. My heart picks up its pace as my feet do and before I know it I reach the end of the block, left, right, left, right—my head swivels but I don’t know which way to turn. I hear a car door slam and the sound of the heavy footsteps of someone following behind me. Left. I dive into the oncoming traffic, dodging cars left and right. It is not supposed to end like this, I am supposed to pay my debts and keep my family safe, but I cannot do that from a cell. My head starts to pound and I whimper, “It is the Juju,” I whisper, “I am being punished.” For what crime? I do not know.

Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. I hear the footsteps coming nearer and nearer, but unlike Lot’s wife, I dare not look back. Buh-BumClickBuhBumClackBuh-BumClick Buh-BumClack. My heart inches up my throat as I gasp for air. My feet are moving but now they feel as though tliey are moving at a snail’s pace. I can’t run like this forever, not in this state. I surrender. .... And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune.

Then the piper will lead us to reason.

And a new day will dawn for those who stand long.

And the forests will echo with laughter.

Once, I ran away—well meant to run away. I remember feeling the sharp, cold air hit the back of my throat as I wheezed all the way down Via Domitiana.

I passed a little man selling fruit and wares which looked brighter and shinier than natural against the dull gray sky. The fractured sidewalk pounded against the soles of my feet through my tall boots; the soles had been in need of mending for months—but I dared not ask the Madam for a new pair. Finally, I stopped to catch my breath. Why was I running? No one was behind me then. I “Nigerian Connection I”: If a female has documents stating her residence then she is free to continue her work on the streets, but if she does not, she is seized by authorities and can be deported. This is an important loophole for traffickers as the female as voluntary prostitution by individual citizens is legal in Italy.

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bent over, with my arms balanced on my knees, and shook and shivered as a gust of cool air hit me again. It was then that I looked upwards and noticed that I had stopped in front of an old building—what I now know was a Catholic Church. Filled with an uncanny curiosity, a force pulled me in. There I witnessed mass. The assistants floated up and down the aisles collecting the offering baskets, while some of the women lowered themselves onto the prayer benches and bowed their heads. The high ceilings, wooden benches, metal chandeliers, men, women, and children seemed so peaceful. So I took a seat in the back. It was there that I learned of Purgatory.

Ifthere's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now, It's just a spring clean for the May queen.

Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run There's still time to change the road you're on.

And it makes me wonder.

At the police station there were many people who questioned me about how I got here, why I came, where I live, but I could not tell them as I was bound by oath to preserve the secrecy of the House. Seeing that they could not get me to talk, they moved on to another person sitting a couple chairs down from me. It was a woman. An Italian, dressed in fishnets, smoky makeup, and a corset. I could not make out what they were questioning her about, but I could tell from first sight that she was like me. The only difference was that she chose this life. I remember always hearing about these women who open up their homes to the same men who pay me and my sisters as low as 10€, but pay a lot more for these Northern Italian “house practitioners”, allowing them to make extra cash and even a decent living. After the questioning, the police left her in the same room as me. Turning to me she said, “Lavoro sessuale e anche un lavoro * ’,” and kept repeating that for the remainder of the time she was held. Finally she was released, she had papers—she lived in Rome and was on vacation’*. As the police gave her her bag back she announced, “Ho intenzione di lavarmi la * faccia ’,” and disappeared into the bathroom. I peered down at my dirty white­ plastic boots; what was once pure white was destroyed forever. And for the first time in a long time, I remembered something—Click. The lock on the door turned, but another woman stepped out. No trace of her old self was left as she had transformed into a beautiful woman with polished red lipstick, pearl earrings, a neat bun and fashionable pant suit....topped off with a handbag from

’■ “Sex work is also a job.”

If a trafficked women produces papers with her residence in Italy she cannot be deported because she is a legal citizen and therefore is exempt from arrest. This creates a loophole where the victim can continue making money for the Madam. ” “I am going to wash my face.”

17

Dolce & Gabbana and a fur stole^”. My mouth hung open. As she turned in my direction, she smirked at me and strutted out of the station past an entering friar.

That should’ve been me, I thought. fowr head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know.

The piper's calling you to join him.

Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?

I look down at my shoes and try to mull over the thought that I just had and lost when the woman reappeared, but it was too late. I was stupid to approach the car. I was stupid io turn left, 1 could have turned right into the field and hid in the grasses. I was—a hand touches my shoulder and sends a shock up my spine that causes me to cringe. I bnish the hand off of my shoulder, the person does not walk away but instead squats down to my eye-level. He is a friar.

Taking my hands in his, he tells me to rise and ushers me out of the station.

I don’t know what causes me to trust him, but I go. I follow him into his car and peer out of all of the windows. There is no longer a solitary tree outside of a single window, the world seems much bigger now, I feel....relief, somehow.

The car pulls into a white gated parking lot that seems newer than the rest of the crumbling Castel Voltumo that I have come to know. The friar opens the door and helps me out leading me into the orange brick building illuminated by little lamps. The building is beautiful, each level is lined with windows unobstructing me from seeing the nuns scurrying back and forth behind them. As I walk inside, one of the nuns takes me into her arms and whispers in my ear, “Dio ti ama.”^' Then it hits me. The thoughts in my head correspond with her voice, “Non dovrai mai piu camminare per le strade.”’- Everything that I have ever known here is gone, but that is good, I muse. A waterfall of tears pour down my face, and I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders as she leads me into the room where I will be sleeping. Even though it is nighttime, I feel like I have just seen the sun. And as we wind on down the road Our shadows taller than our soul./There walks a lady we all know/Who shines white light and wants to show/How everything still turns to gold./And if you listen very hard.../The tune will come to you at last./When all are one and one is all.../To be a rock and not to roll./And she's buying a stairway to heaven.

Ibid.: Many Italian women in Italy either use prostitution for die much-needed extra income or for pleasure money. Most of these women have college degrees and another job.

“God loves you.”

“You never have to walk tlie streets anymore.”

•»• 18

A Journey Through My Library

by Ellen Cooper

The library in my childhood home sits on a shelf atop my desk, directly across from my bed. Initially I hadn’t thought much about placing it there, but overtime it became an important part of my daily ritual. My library was the first thing I saw every morning and the last thing I saw at night. But what did this object represent to me then, and what does it represent now? I love my books, but the importance of this library is not merely its content. Rather, it’s symbolic of my attempt to become a citizen of the world. My library’s content span many languages, countries, and genres, mixing together indiscriminately. The only form of organization is the arbitrary ordering system called the alphabet. The more I stare at this chaos, the more I try to make sense of it, as if making sense of this arrangement will help make sense of everything.

Achebe demonstrated how an Ibo village fell apart in Nigeria, while Allende’s showed how a family living in their house of spirits fell apart in Chile.

Part of each disaster can be linked to Western influence, although each society already had its inherent conflicts, just waiting to burst. Camus’s Mersault senselessly murdered an Arab in Algeria because someone told him to and hardly processed the guilt because he saw life as inherently absurd. On the flip side, Dauod demonstrated the consequences of senseless behavior by explaining the story from the point of view of the stranger’s brother, speaking about his life in an ironically similar, angst-ridden manner. Clearly every society has its own particular issues, but anguish is a luiiversal feeling among all.

Fitzgerald’s Gatsby and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary offer interesting foils to one another, both attempting to live a luxury in which life they don’t truly belong. Gatsby tries to amass wealth in order to attract the woman he loves.

Bovary feigns a life of wealth because she is unsatisfied with her boring husband. Unfortunately, when their money runs out, they both meet tragic fates, dying unhappy and unsatisfied.

Garcia Marquez described the story of the Buendias who build up the city of Macondo and watch it fall into decadence. The last Buendia translates a set of prophecies that reveal how his family’s tragedies were foretold, which raises the question; are all of our fates preordained in some way? John Green also challenges the notion that our fate is in our hands. Cassius stated, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/But in ourselves,’’ but the instances of childhood cancer demonstrate that sometimes, little blame can be given to the victims.

Ibsen’s plays pose questions about what it means to be a good person in a society that rewards following the status quo and criticizes those who stand up to it. For instance, in An Enemy of the People, a doctor discovers that the town baths are contaminated, but the mayor condemns him for creating a disruption to the economic system. In the end, he bravely stands alone with his family against

••• 19

the establishment in order to save people’s lives. Unfortunately though, protest doesn’t always offer a way out. Kadare depicts the story of a young Albanian man who must unwillingly participate in a blood feud. For him, there was no way to escape death. At least he understood why he was being chased down though. After all, the rules of authority can sometimes be completely absurd.

Kafka shows how terrifying arbitrary power can be in The Trial when Joseph K. is arrested for a crime he doesn’t even know he has committed. All in all, these stories demonstrate that there are times when you shouldn’t follow the rules: when the rules don’t even make sense.

Levi fought to survive in Auschwitz, sometimes acting in morally compromising ways that left him with lasting trauma. However, Mann’s Aschenbach couldn’t will himself to leave a Venice during a cholera outbreak in order to save his life, because he couldn’t bear to abandon the 14-year-old boy with whom he became infatuated. I can’t help but think about Viktor Frankl’s theories about why some people survive and others commit suicide. A dangerous situation is not a death sentence, but giving up hope is {Man's Search for Meaning, 89).

At this moment in my library, I come upon the book I bought on a trip to Budapest; Be Faithful Unto Death by Zsigmund Moricz. The Hungarians I know remember it as a story about a miserable young boy. I thought of it as the coming-of-age story about a child who initially has trouble finding his place but eventually discovers himself as a poet. Right next to this book is Botchan by Natsume Soseki, a classic often included in the Japanese school curriculum. The Japanese people I know describe it as a story about a miserable teacher in a mral country school. I thought of it as the story of a man who deals with difficult situations by being honest, even if it means that he can be a bit blunt. Both characters are strikingly perceptive of their environments and they are brave enough to criticize what they see as wrong. If only I could do that more myself.

Randy Pausch explained in his last lecture, before he died of cancer, how we need to live our lives with purpose and achieve our dreams by reinterpreting them in realistic ways. But Plath suffered greatly in pursuit of her dreams of becoming a writer. The character Esther Greenwood in her semiautobiographical novel The Bell Jar replicated her own descent into depression after writing did not prove to be a fruitful endeavor. In truth, being a writer is difficult, which is why Rilke wrote letters of advice to a 19-year-old cadet. I’ve read those letters a number of times in hopes of figuring out where I belong as an artist.

Safran Foer’s young protagonist Oskar Shell deals with the loss of his father after 9/11 by going on a quest that his father left behind for him. Satrapi witnessed numerous deaths of loved ones due to the Islamic Revolution in Iran, and had to spend her teenage years abroad. Eventually, she was forced to leave her home country for good because of the conservative Iranian society was

• •• 20

stifling her development as a modem woman. No matter where you are, transitioning from adolescence to adulthood is a challenging process.

Patti Smith met Robert Mapplethorpe in her 20s and built a loving relationship with him that lasted throughout their lives. Some years earlier, in a different America, Steinbeck imagined a friendship between the astute George and his mentally challenged friend Lennie who stayed together in hopes of owning their own piece of land. What links these two couples for me is their unusual nature. Smith and Mapplethorpe almost act like husband and wife, even though Mapplethorpe comes out as gay early on in their relationship. George acts as if Lennie is a bother, but it’s also clear that Lennie plays a vital role in his life. The nature of each relationship may be different, but both couples rely on each other to survive the perils of abject poverty and the difficulties of life in general.

As I get close to the end of this library, the last names feel more foreign Tanizaki, Tolkien, Vargas Llosa, Voltaire. But inevitably, I return to my home country with my last few novels. My library is bookended by my grand collection of books from my favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut. Through his works.

I’ve come to understand the United States the most. Hocus Pocus, in particular, is a scathing satire about class and race prejudice, the Vietnam War, corporate prisons, and the concept of Americanness as a whole. His criticisms of the US in his works were powerful and poignant, but he couldn’t help but feel adoration for our nation as well. He chastised America because he loved it.

According to his graduation speeches, Vonnegut was a self-proclaimed proponent of humanism. He believed in the value and agency of all human beings, regardless of immutable characteristics. At this moment in the world where divisions between factions have grown so entrenched, I believe that humanism and the field of the humanities have a particularly important role because they allow us to understand other people and their points of view. One of the saddest truths of life is that our individual experiences are extremely limited, and that causes us to judge others, as if their experiences couldn’t be real if we haven’t felt them ourselves. Thankfully, we can compensate for our inherent limitations through art. An artist invites you into his or her universe for a short while and allows you to see what it’s like, not only on a conceptual level, but also on a spiritual one.

I think that literature in particular is one of the most effective art forms for teaching acceptance because it allows us to interact intimately with a single person’s thoughts. Could literature help unite the world? Il’s hard to say. People frown upon the term “world literature,’’ and with good reason. Creating such a curriculum would be inherently reductive and incomplete. A country or region could never be encapsulated by the work of a few authors. But that is exactly why I believe we should read as much literature as possible from all around the world. Reading literature makes it difficult to reduce other groups to a set of characteristics because one comes to understand something very important: that • •• 21

these groups are made up of distinctive individuals. The more one reads, the more one realizes that the world is filled people who have their own worries, desires, values, pains, hardships and victories, all of which aren’t so different from our own. Literature teaches us theory of mind. It teaches us empathy. It teaches us tolerance. Essentially, it teaches us the many ways we are human.

*** O Universo Aberto

by Aransiola Fakorode

Eu me cometa a mais recursos Que sens, mesmo em qualquer dessas meios Aberto-inclinados, de mostrando nos Mesmos, todos desses possiveis atenfoes.

Nao que qualquer desses meios, de Exibindo e transmitindo informaQoes, Haja ser alcan^ado, mas que esse Mesmas filosofias medindos.

Eu use 0 maximo interessado em Introduzindo eu mesmo, como Uma pessoa, quern haja mais nenhum,, E menos em qualquer desses, aberto.

Em esse mesmas razoes coinuns, Reagir e professar esse adoravel Mentalmente, interesses Profissional e justifa razoavel.

Para esse mesma considera?ao Manter garantiando e renomeando.

II O universo aberto, deveria haver sido, Mais que qualquer dessas mesmos.

Meios modemos. E metodos, de repetindo E reapresentando nos-mesmos.

Eu poderia nao haver suposto Eu mesmo, qualquer outro gldrias do Que teriamos pensado, e mesmo Sem ter que te-lo conhecido, nosso....

Eu Sugiriria que os necessidades Eos direitos, sobre direitos De informaQao e composifiios, Hajam permitido manter nos.

Sobre todos os direitos e deveres de Uma pessoa, e aspecto politico e apolice.

The Open Universe

I commit to more resources Than yours, even as any of those means Openly inclined, showing us Themselves, allthose possible attentions.

Not that any of those means, of Exhibiting and transmitting information, Can be reached, more than ••• 22

Those same measuring philosophies.

And representing ourselves.

I use the most interested in Introducing myself, how A person, who has no more.

And less in any of those, open.

I could have not supposed Myself, any of those glories of What we would have thought, even Without having to have known it, ours....

In that same common reasons React and profess that lovely Mentally, interests Professional andfairjustice.

For that same consideration Keeping guaranteeing and renaming.

II The open universe, should have been.

More than any of those.

Modem means. And methods, repeating

Parai'so Luz do Sol

Eu seja seu sol belo, Apontando em alto em voce.

De paraiso, querendo Ver me brilhar o mais brilhante,

I would suggest the necessities And the rights, about rights Of information and compositions.

Have permitted to keep us.

Above all the rights and commitments of A person, and political aspect and policy.

E em todos de essas encama?oes.

O importancia de sendo mesmo, Eo necessidade continuando.

II Tanta luz do sol, ver. O necessidade Ouvir eles, aqui e ha. O proxima Fun^ao e desejo importante, Produzir e proclamar, eos glorias ha.

^Voce legarieis vir ver me muito, Voce deverieis ser nossos, Eu serieisia seu? O gloria de paraiso, Eos majestoso confortos ha, sejam seus,

Sabendo mais que mesmo, ou tanto Quanto vendo alem um-outro e algum.

Igualmente, e em qualquer estado Desses e dessas disciplina comum.

Eu consideraria um perfeito Meios, de criando interesses Em pessoas e outras, serao.

Em todos esses fatores.

O fuuQao de ouvindo seja tanto Quanto o a^oes atras recebendo, E conhecendo e proliferando, E imergindo nos mesmos, em tudo.

Em todas estes necessidades, Sejam coisas e fatores, seus, Considerado, para futuras posifoes.

Eu poderia ser direto, mas isso sendo Que ha sejam nao mais maneiras Mostrar nos mesmos, todos ou todo ' •• 23

Desses montagens mensuraveis, De furajoes e legi'timos algum, Em decisoes. O nome a mim.

Paradise Sunshine

II So much sunlight, see. The necessity Listening to them, here and is. The next role and important desire.

Produce and proclaim, the glories are.

I would be your beautiful sun Pointing high at you From paradise, wanting To see me shine the brightest.

You would come and see me a lot, should you be ours, would I be yours? The glory of paradise.

And the majestic comforts, whether yours,

Knowing more than myself, or how Much seeing beyond one another and some.

Equally, and in any state Of those and their common discipline.

The role of listening would be how Much the actions behind receiving.

And knowing and proliferating.

And immersing ourselves, in everything.

I would consider a perfect Resources, to create interest In people and others, maybe.

In alt those factors.

In all these necessities.

Whether things andfactors, yours.

Considering, forfuture positions.

And in all those incarnations.

I could be direct, but that being That there are no more ways To show ourselves, everyone and all those measurable assemblies Of roles and some legitimate.

In decisions. The name to me.

The importance of being yourself And the continuing necessity.

••• 24

The Deer

by Audrey Deng

After two weeks of fear they shot the deer dead. No longer could the head­ butting, leg-kicking, antler-wielding beast terrify the kids or eat from Mrs. Lowell’s desiccated vegetable garden.

Alive, it was fierce. I only experienced its vivacity by word of mouth, but judging from my parents’ breathless accounts over the phone, I came to understand that this deer was the Armageddon manifest. Children were scared of it. Women were scared of it. Men were scared of it. Louis, who had a gun, was only somewhat scared of it. The deer was the neighborhood id, ego, superego, dominating the local psyche with an animalistic oneness that was almost panopticon-like: if we behaved better, maybe it would somehow sense our goodness and go away to an awful neighborhood that deserved it. With the deer’s presence, kids stopped screaming in the streets and throwing pebbles at cars after school. Teens abided by curfews. Adults too scared to open the door for prolonged amounts of time, willfully deprived their front porch plants of water. Waiting for the school bus and fetching mail became quickly-executed, closely-monitored activities; for once, the neighborhood was calm and peaceful, save for a raging deer tearing down the street and head-butting parked cars at unpredictable hours. The deer was in charge. And then the deer was dead.

1 wasn’t there for the shooting—it was a heard, not seen affair between Louis and the deer—but I was there for the burial. Rusty tan, short fur coated the skeleton. Dried blood matted its stomach. The antlers were intact but useless; the head looked more like a wall fixture than a part of a body. Glassy-eyed and loose-limbed, it was already attracting the loving bites of flies, decomposing right before our eyes.

They decided to bury the deer it in the forest where it came from, which was coincidentally the patch of woods closest to my neighborhood. Why not?

They couldn’t do it on neighborhood property or chop up its body for fertilizer.

Besides, it was kind of a nice thing, reluming the dead to its home— to fuel the soil of its home with its own body.

Plenty of humans want to be buried at home, said Louie, who was spearheading this whole operation as the hunter of the neighborhood. Plus, he was the one with the gun. So they placed the deer on a large tablecloth and dragged its strangely, dangerously muscular body over to the edge of the woods and began to dig.

There the cobwebs exploded across the rocks like silver nets. Dew drops twisted blades of grass to their will with threats of their departure, before plopping onto the soft fists of mushroom heads. Bniised leaves were everywhere, weathered, ant-bitten, and rabbit-stomped. I liked this place. I liked its threats of poison ivy and snake skins that always appeared sans owner. When I was a kid 1 often came here with my sister, sticks in hands, scavenging. In the • •• 25

summer, she would show me how to test areas for thorns, where to find the honeysuckles with the most syrup. We built stick bridges over flat land to practice our balance. After learning that friction could create fire, we struck rocks against each other over and over. We claimed to see sparks, though they never consummated fire. We decided we were witches and we brewed potions out of creek water and flowers, ripping cattails from the nearby pond into fluffy bits as garnish to disguise the thorns hidden beneath. One afternoon, we ripped apart so many cattails that the forest floor looked like a snowy, white carpet, covering the guts of wetland botany, of which the decomposing deer was now a part of. What natural magic. Three feet into the earth’s crust, the sweaty men rolled the deer into the hole by pulling hard on one end of the cloth. When the deer’s mouth gaped open after hitting the bottom of the pit, I learned that it had teeth.

They grabbed the shovels again.

Dirt coated the deer’s body, its open eyes, its nose, its legs. If it were alive, it would cough, throw off the dirt, and charge at us, powerful legs kicking down earth, forcing everyone back to their homes and their curfews. But as dead as the majestic animal was, so thoroughly, completely dead, it just let itself be covered with utter indignity. I liked it.

The men patted down the earth and shook each others’ hands. The young men of the neighborhood who had just moved in looked thrilled about being included with the town patriarchs. What next? A Potluck, perhaps. A round of golf, maybe hunting. Together, in a cloud of testosterone, they floated back home to their wives and children for dinner, egos boosted by this manly feat.

They would sit down with their kids and talk about the circle of life, disguising thinly-veiled excitement with condescending paternal concern. Several would go back to work the next day and talk about this at lunch.

You know that crazy deer that had been terrorizing the neighborhood? Me and the boys, we put it down. Yeah, it was crazy. Yeah, it was a miracle we even killed it.

Children had not been allowed to this burial, but no one had told me to come and no one told me to leave so I stayed to smoke a cigarette. I glanced at the darkening sky. It was getting late and I needed to take out the garbage before it got too dark to see the curb. I flicked the still-burning cigarette onto the grave of cold, dry leaves.

What I saw next was no miracle.

••• 26

People Never Fail to Repeat Themselves

by Kiersten Auroria

1. SHOCK You will probably react to learning of the loss with numbed disbelief. You may deny the reality of the loss at some level, in order to avoid the pain. Shock provides emotional protection from being overwhelmed all at once. This may last for weeks.

July 14, 2016. 10:.30pm The girl watches as the white truck speeds down the promenade on La Fete Nalionale.2‘*The throng of people in front of her are at a standstill as the truck zooms past them. It is way past her bedtime, but her mom wants her to stay awake for the fireworks that painted the sky just moments before. The truck hits one person, then another, then another, she hears afterwards that eighty-four to eighty-six people were left dead in its wake, but she didn’t stay to watch. Panic climbs up her throat. The fear is tangible in the moment.

“Mom.” “Mom?” “Mom!” “Mom!” “Where’s your sister?!”

She finally hears a reply.^’ The gxmshots echo down the palm-tree lined street amongst the wails and moans of family members and friends mourning over the bodies of their loved ones. But she does not dare to stop to look.-® The opening of a building, the elevator doors, the white tile floor.^’

December 19, 2016. 8:02 pm The boy watches the Gliihwein stand anxious for his older brother to hand him the hot Elderberry drink. Laughter rides on the wind as people pass by holding their bags of trinkets for the holidays. Backwards thrust, a sharp pain his shoulder, the colors black and white flash by. The monochromatic truck swerves and speeds towards the stalls on the opposite side. The throng of people in front decide to use the seven stages of grief to structure my essay because I wanted to write in a manner that follows my train of thought. Throughout the essay, 1 used the descriptions of eacli phase as a context in which I based my short stories in. I hope to juxtapose the difference between the psychologically recorde response with the response 1 had and the responses I observed (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”).

Also known as Bastille Day. (flowriin) 26 (Bullock) ’’(flowriin) 27

of him are at a standstill as the truck zooms past them. The truck hits one person, then another, then another, he hears afterwards that twelve people were left dead and fifty-six were left injured in its wake, but he didn’t stay to watch. He wants to go home to the clementines and nuts and chocolates that are strewn around his house. He wants to return to the kitchen that smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and lick the batter from his mother’s spoon. He wants to— “Lukas.”

“Lukas?”

“Lukas!”

“Lukas!”

“Where are you?!”

He finally hears a reply.

The sobs of family members and friends mourning over the bodies of their loved ones float down the street. But all he can focus on is the pavement racing underneath him.

A. DENIAL^’ The channel flips on the screen in my home in California. Bloomberg News, The Hill, CNN.. ..I decide on CNN. The recording of the black and white weighted truck that rammed right through the Berlin Christmas Market fifteen minutes from my aunt’s house is on replay. My stomach does a quick flip as I feel my skin start to get sticky.

My WhatsApp shows the last message my aunt sent me from Christmastime.

Ven 9 Die 1 ;43 PM We are getting the Xmas tree tomorrow and starting to decorate. I love Xmas. When are you going home..?..Give everyone hugs and kisses from the Berliners...Wishing you all the best for the New year and have a great Xmas.

Hugs, Auntie Mar 20 Die 7:07 PM I am already home But I heard about the attack is everyone fine?

Mar 20 Die 9:21 PM

28 (flowriin) 28 Normally the first phase consists of both ‘shock’ and ‘denial’ together, but I decided to separate them in order to fully explore the reactions to the Islamophobia (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”).

• • • 28

Yes, we are all OK.., Thanks the whole things is just crazy....This will not stop us from going to the Xmas markets, we enjoy them too much. ...Please give everyone a hug for me...

Mar 20 Die 9:33 PM Ok! I will.

It was just a little scary because I saw the area that you showed me [when I visited Berlin] and that was where it happened

I still fee! uneasy as I console my mother and tell her my aunt confirmed their safety because all I can think about is the way my aunt seemed unfazed by the tragedy that just occurred.

II. PAIN” As the shock wears off, it is replaced with the suffering of unbelievable pain. Although excruciating and almost unbearable, it is important that you experience the pain fully, and not hide it, avoid it or escape from it with alcohol or drugs.

You may have guilty feelings or remorse over things you did or didn't do with your loved one. Life feels chaotic and scary during this phase.

August 19,2016. 8:00 am The bright rays of sunlight stream through the small French doors of the Athenaeum—the small hotel my mom and I booked for a week in Florence, Italy. The golden rays stretch their fingers onto the small coffee table by the door, where the worn copy of the “Il Sole 24 ORE” lies highlighting the earthquake in Umbria. My grandparents call like they always do when they hear about a natural disaster no matter how far my family and I are from it.

I heard there was a ‘quake.

Yeah, in Umbria. I’m in Florence though, they say we are 200 kilometers away.

Are you and your mom alright?

Yeah, thanks for calling.

Ok, we love vou.

Click.

“One day, I know I will be sorry when they don’t call,” I mumble.

I snuggle back into my sheets as my mom comes out of the bathroom. A segment on the French Burkini ban” is airing.

’o (WliatsApp). « (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”).

29

“These people have nerve!”

“I know mom, I know.”

“I mean, who do the French officers think they are? Humiliating women like that.”

“I guess France really is trying to be as androgynous rehgiously as possible.”

“Fight on! Wear your suits with pride.”

I roll my eyes at her.

The Burkini Ban stays on my mind for as long as it takes me to cross the room, ride the escalator down to the lobby, and grab a bowl of fruit.’^

October .30, 2016. 7:30 pm The German sky was now blood orange, just as the trees were and the light bathing the sidewalk. My aunt and 1 neared the steps to the apartment. She told me about her plight trying to learn how to swim at her age which had me laughing. Until she talked about those who refused to learn.

“The Muslims that came to this country have to obey the rules we have here, she noted. It’s the law to learn how to swim.”

“Don’t they have Burkinis in Berlin—Germany, even?”

“No, not yet it seems.”

“Well, they have been through an awful lot. I mean, they came here to flee a lot of issues.”

“Yes, but they decided to come to our country. They could swim privately if they wanted to.”

“But the instructor would still see them. They could swim in their clothes No, no, that’s torture, the coach made us do that for swim team—” “The Muslims also many young and here we don’t marry young.”

October 31, 2016. 4;45pm The German sky was an eerie bluish-gray as the rain began to pelt my Aunt and me. Under that umbrella, with our mouths spewing puffs after all of our running, she told me about the Muslim refugees who came in droves after Germany opened its borders. The desperate suicides the refugees committed from the top levels of the government-subsidized building were only covered in a vague local paper. The sky turned an even darker, soot-like gray as she portrayed the refugees as greedy because they had received low-level jobs and ’^The burkini is a cross between a Burka and a bikini and allows Muslim women to swim at public beaches while still adhering to the Islamic norm of covering one’s body (BBC). ” Note: The reader should pay attention to the last three lines of this entry in preparation for the next phase.

••• 30

weren’t satisfied. I looked down at my sneakers, now drenched in the rain that was pooling around my feet at the start of the crosswalk. 1 understood her, but somehow 1 believed that there was a piece of the puzzle missing.

A. GUILT’* The question I keep on asking and answering myself is: Is Islam imprisoning women in its teachings? Maybe? Depends on the situation, what do I mean by imprisonment? Like, they must be covered in public. But women should be able to make their own choices.If she is forced to, then yes.If she chooses to, then no.So, do I support women who wear a Burkini? Well, yes.

Everyone has the right to choose, especially their clothing. If Islam isn’t imprisonment for Muslim women, it is theirfreedom, and the government should do everything it can to protect that freedom.

I was wrong to disregard the gravity of the ban (and the pain it has caused).

III. ANGER” Frustration gives way to anger, and you may lash out and lay unwarranted blame for the death on someone else. Please try to control this, as permanent damage to your relationships may result. This is a time for the release of bottled up emotion.

You may rail against fate, questioning "Why me?" You may also try to bargain in vain with the powers that be for a way out of your despair ("I will never drink again if you just bring him back") The people clap and jeer as the woman removes her blue shawl, revealing her bare arms.

“GO HOME.’’” Her child cries. This is the woman’s home and her child’s home as well. I like to think that when the child cried, he or she knew the meaning of the act of unclothing in public. But this was after the calamity on La Fete Nationale.”

Normally ‘pain’ and ‘guilt’ go hand in hand for the second phase in the seven stages of grief, but like the first phase, I decided to separate them (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”).

Normally this phase would be ‘Anger and Bargaining’, but for the sake of the short scene I chose the more relevant emotion, anger, since there is no sense of bargaining. (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”).

(Cockburn).

Bastille Day 31

“[The] beachwear ostentatiously [shows] a religious affiliation while France and places of religious significance are the target of terror attacks”. ’® A sense of justice rode in the air. But it didn’t last for long, the ban was deemed unconstitutional by the higher court and was overturned.

IV. REFLECTION” Just when your friends may think you should be getting on with your life, a long period of sad reflection will likely overtake you. This is a normal stage of grief, so do not be "talked out of it" by well-meaning outsiders. Encouragement from others is not helpful to you during this stage of grieving.

During this time, you finally realize the true magnitude of your loss, and it depresses you. You may isolate yourself on purpose, reflect on things you did with your lost one, and focus on memories of the past. You may sense feelings of emptiness or despair.

More 7 stages of grief..

How does terrorism affect us?

It was the day of the proposal deadline and I was at a loss for words on what to research. When the BBC.co.uk, came to my rescue, I was relieved. Slouching in my comer chair in the tiny school cafe in Florence, I witnessed the BBC’s segment on the aftermath of President Trump’s temporary ban which averted nearly all Iraqi, Syrian, Iranian, Sudanese, Libyan, Somali and Yemeni citizens from entering the country for ninety days, prevented the entry of refugees for one hundred and twenty days, and prohibited refugees from Syria indefinitely I watched Trump’s lips move on the silenced screen and wished there was sound so I could hear what he could be possibly saying to make himself as red as a tomato.

Persecute [pur-si-kyoot] verb (used with object), persecuted, persecuting.

1. to pursue with harassing or oppressive treatment, especially because of religious or political beliefs, ethnic or racial origin, gender identity, or sexual orientation.

’’The mayor of Cannes, David Lisnard, said this earlier in August in light of the attack during the La Fete Nationale celebrations (Sims). ” Normally this phase would be called “Depression”, Reflection, Loneliness’, but I decided to focus solely on my own reflection of the what terrorism does (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF.."). “(Kertseher) • •• 32

2.

to annoy or trouble persistently/'

VI. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH'’^ As you become more functional, your mind starts working again, and you will find yourself seeking realistic solutions to problems posed by life without your loved one. You will start to work on practical and financial problems and reconstructing yourself and your life without him or her.

February 16, 2017. 7:16 am I wasn’t alive when President Juvenal Habyarimana and his plane were shot down, and the Hutus butchered the Tutsis in 1994. But I was alive to see the movie Hotel Rwanda. I wasn’t alive when the Turkish government eliminated the Armenian people from their homeland by eitherforced deportation or massacre between 1915 and 1917. But 1 was alive to read about it in my AP European History textbook. 1 wasn't alive when the European powers ’ leniency allowed for German persecution and manslaughter of the Jews and any other peoples they deemed unfit for their society. But 1 was alive to playfully chase my aunt amongst the solemn grey concrete slabs of the German Holocaust Memorial in December.

Amongst the rectangular columns (in the Memorial) of all lengths and widths I encountered a small, solitary tree in the heart of the maze. It seemed as though its greenery was even more satinated on a day when the sky, like the concrete columns, was a dull grey. As 1 walked closer the echoes of screaming and laughter died out until all that was left was silence. And all I could think about was how lucky I was to be in a world where I didn’t have to fear another Holocaust.

Kiersten.

Kiersten?

Kiersten!

Yeah, I’m coming, I respond to my aunt.

As we exit the maze, I finally see how big the memorial is. Everything seemed so small from within and the tree seemed even smaller. But from afar I can see the luminous greenery peeking from above the sea of gray.

“At least there is hope for a tree: •“ (Dictionarj’.com “persecute”) I decided to skip the fifth phase, ‘Upward Turn’. This is because tliis phase is about the journey between the fourtli and sixth phase and the reader can already infer my progression through iny own thoughts and outlooks, the short scenes within each phase ("7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”)..

33

If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail”?’

VII. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE" During this, the last of the seven stages in this grief model, you learn to accept and deal with the reality of your situation. Acceptance does not necessarily mean instant happiness. Given the pain and turmoil you have experienced, you can never return to the carefree, untroubled YOU that existed before this tragedy. But you will find a way forward.

You will start to look forward and actually plan things for the future.

Eventually, you will be able to think about your lost loved one without pain; sadness, yes, but the wrenching pain will be gone. You will once again anticipate some good times to come, and yes, even find joy again in the experience of living.

You have made it through the 7 stages of grief.

I wasn’t alive to challenge the butchering of the Tutsis, the elimination of the Armenian people, and the murder of the Jews, minorities, and the disabled people in Germany, but I am alive to witness the yet another example of persecution before me. Luckily, history tells us all we need to know. If we ignore the people seeking help—like Trump, telling Muslims to remain in their own countries— and persecute them for their religious beliefs—like in the Burkini ban— then all society is doing is fueling the argument for the perpetrators of persecution—that the world doesn’t care about those being killed or humiliated. If the global society becomes numb to the issues and deaths of people they deem as alien, then we as a world lose our own humanity. I may not have been alive for neither the Rwandan and Armenian genocide nor the Holocaust, but I can try to play my part in bringing attention to the current global issues and making a difference.

■*’ Job 14:7 (BibleGateway). « (“7 STAGES OF GRIEF..”).

••• 34

“Having Hardly Left”: The Film Language of Hiroshima Mon Amour

by Gabriella Mayer The 1959 French-Japanese film Hiroshima Mon Amour, directed by Alan Resnais and written by Marguerite Duras, is one that takes an intense focus in determining whether it is better to remember what people have gone through, or if it is better to forget in order to move on with life. It is an exploration of what can occur when people get so absorbed in the past events that they do not, for the time being, have the strength to cast those memories into oblivion. Film acts as a medium that gives hints as to what the characters may be experiencing and their undertones through careful editing and appropriate soundtrack usage.

Though the events of the film only last for 24 hours, the language of the film permits depth and different approaches to the allegorical and operatic exchange that occurs between the two main characters. At the beginning of the film, their dialogue (as it is presumed they are having sex) plays over scenes of a Hiroshima that is just beginning to come to terms with what had happened only a decade ago:“Four ‘dead’ students chat beside the river. The river. The tides.

The daily piers of Hiroshima rebuilt” (Duras, 24). Lui is a Japanese man that lives in Hiroshima and deals with the national aftennath of the 1945 atomic bombings; Elie is a French woman who was ostracized from her small French town because she had a relationship with a German soldier during World War II. Elie’s story of the aftermath of the German soldier’s death, in which she was kept for about two years in her family’s cellar in Nevers, acts as the primary evidence for the act of forgetting to be more beneficial by using flashbacks that illustrate the isolation Elie had felt from the outside world and her parents’ shame.Even so, there is the question of whether Elie is actually living in the past or present in any given moment. Through her brief affair with Lui, a point of dialogue is made in which each shot in the film asking a question about how to approach the acts of remembering and forgetting which “continue, but fadfe] away... All [of it] last[ing] longer than it should” (Duras, 44).Through the exchange of dialogue that occurs throughout, the language of the film is one that allows each of the character’s experiences to become a part of an international, collective memory of World War II. The “resurrection of Nevers” occurs in a Hiroshima cafe where “those seated at the back of the cafe don’t see the banks of the river, but only the river itself... only vaguely outlined” (Duras, 53). The couple’s beginning and end consists of the city of Hiroshima being placed into context with Elie’s years spent in isolation in her family’s cellar. The wide bay window allows the couple an almost untarnished view of the outside world that Elie was not privy to while she was kept in her family’s cellar. Elie’s first glimpse into the resurrection of her suppressed memories occurs the night they begin their love affair and from there, “[Lui] looks at her [as the German soldier would look at Elie], she at him, as she would look at the city” (83). The longer Elie is in Hiroshima, the more • •• 35

absorbed she becomes in retracing her way past her memories trying to forge a new path. The audience then observes these movements as Elie is in the hotel: I We] see her open the door to her room. Enter the room and stop short as before an abyss, or as if she had discovered someone already in the room... ... climbing the stairs, descending, going back up, etc. Retracing her steps.

Coming and going in the hallway. Wringing her hands, searching for a solution, not finding it, returning to her room all of a sudden. And this time coming into terms with the room (Duras, 73).

Elie in this manner is subsequently, instead of the hotel, trying to picture the movements which evoke the memories of her time spent trapped in the cellarOne could say that in that moment she is trapped in her memories and does not recognize the present moment. To Elie, even though she is free, she still lives in that cellar. In Hiroshima, she is a ghost of who she once was, floating around the same locations and doing the same routines as when she was in her Nevers home. As Duras notes, “it's not the fact of being shaved and disgraced that marks her life, it’s the already mentioned defeat: the fact that she didn’t die of love on August 2, 1944, on the banks of the Loire”, even though at one point in the script, Elie is described to have died, figuratively, when she was 20 at Nevers (112). Her movements throughout the hotel act in solidarity as the victims of the 1945 atomic bombing had done in its aftermath, wandering around the streets in a world that, in the span of a couple of minutes, had been tom apart by forces outside of their control.

Up until the scene where Lui and Elie sit together in the cafe, the memory of Nevers is never fully realized nor completely present in the moment. The first indication that Elie is reliving her memories of being isolated in Nevers occurs during the morning after the couple begin their affair, while Elie is staring at Lui while he is sleeping: “While she is looking at [his hands], the body of a young man, lying in the same position, but in the posture of death, on the bank of a river in full daylight. [The room is in semidarkness]” (Duras, 29). Meeting a man from a city that suffered as terrible a fate as an atomic bombing (which also took the lives of his family) thrusts Elie out of the purgatory she occupied, between the trauma of her German lover’s death and starting a new life in Paris.

Being in a traumatized city having an affair with a traumatized man allows Elie a validation of her own sense of tragedyto relive her own trauma, thereby leading to the “shots... [that were] extremely brief’ that then gradually begin to build (Duras, 29).It’s from these briefly cut camera shots that the beginning of a connection between the past and present is formed. The audience leams later in the film that the man lying next to the riverbank is Elie’s German lover; however, in those brief cuts in that scene,Elle’s lover appears just as any other soldier slaughtered in the endless battlefields of World War IL From the zoomed in shot of Elie and the soldier’s corpse, for the moment there is nothing to distinguish them from being part of enemy sides. In this way, these back-to-back shots force the known and unknown tragedies into universal memory. In the • •• 36

cafe, the universal memories begin to dissipate as Elie begins to recall her memories of Nevers and the aftermath of her “disgrace”. The audience sees Elie become fully inunersed in her own thoughts as “she blocks her ears in this cafe.

The cafe is suddenly very quiet. Shots of Nevers. Riva’s bloody hands,” and as the scene goes on, the past’s connection to the present become even stronger; “Somewhere at Nevers, bleeding hands. Hers, on the table, are intact” (Duras, 55).The memories of being present now in Hiroshima and Nevers in the past begin to blur; Elie cannot distinguish where the traumatic events begin and end.

The ability to suppress memory in the action of forgetting always leads a chance that a memory will be recognized with even more strength.Repression acts as a defense mechanism, blocking out the memories or feelings about a particular event. There is no true answer as to how long repression can last, but when it does, the emotions recalled from the traumatic event can come back more powerful than before.

Deep into the process of recounting her memories of Nevers to Lui, Elie describeshow the German soldier was killed on the day of Nevers’ liberation, and, in the throes of the moment, shouts about the soldier being her first love. In the next moment “the Japanese slaps her... she acts as if she didn’t know where it had come from;” the slap is included in the original script.However, there are two back-to-back shots of people in the cafe turning their heads toward the couple that is not indicated in the script (Duras 65-66). While the action of the slap is not critical in this moment, tlie decision to include the people turning their head at this exact point is an interesting one. It is already established that Nevers and Hiroshima are meeting halfway when “someone, a solitary man, puts a record of French bal-musette music on the jukebox” and Lui gives Elie more of his drink “to make the... lost memories of Nevers last, to keep anything from ‘moving’” (Duras, 59). With the shots of the people in the cafe interrupting the stream of memories, there is a chance that Lui slapping Elie acts as a screen memory of Elie’s parents putting her in isolation after disgracing the family; the people in the cafe act as a screen memory of when her head was shaved and she was publically humiliated in the warehouse. They are the embodiment of screen memories in that they are recollections that mask other memories of deep emotional significances. The people in the cafe act in this moment as the townspeople of Nevers, judging Elie for her affair with the soldier, just as the people of Hiroshima may be judging Elie for briefly having an affair with one of their own. Other than the haircutting scene, it is the first time that a public reaction in the context of Nevers is expressed. The public reaction to Elie’s actions is more subdued and put more in speculation as an undertone for the past and present events of the film which merge in that moment. Lui slapping Elie disrupts the private reaction of the memory of Nevers and propels the memories in to international perspective and reactions.

In a more profound symbolism, Lui takes the place of Elie’s mother in being the person who at least tries to understand her, in the way that her mother • •• 37

should have but could not. Elie’s mother is described as “treat[ing] her daughter with rough tenderness... [since] she hasn’t given up hope for her daughter” (Duras 95-96). Though we do not see the mother for long in the film, there is often the sense that the mother’s attempts to understand the grave situation is forgotten by Elie, thereby leading the mother to seem more resigned to her daughter’s fate. There is the understanding that young love can take a strong hold of the person and affect their actions for years to come, but the mother is aware that the war and her daughter’s actions are in very recent memory, thereby leading no chance to reintroduce Elie as a member of society when she had fallen in love with what had just been an enemy of France. Duras notes on Lui’s personality that in casting Lui, the profile must “almost seem French... nothing affected or fragile about his face” and have that “quality found in men who have reached maturity without succumbing prematurely to fatigue” (109).

Throughout the film, it is continually depicted that even though he fought in World War II and lost members of his family in the bombing, Lui acts as the sympathizer and starting point of a conversation for how to remember, but how also to forget enough in order to survive. This is made evident when Lui holds Elie in the same position she was in when she screamed in her mother’s arms; “a formless scream understandable in any language as the cry of a child for its mother” (Duras, 62).Lui and the mother in those shots are “still against her, holding her hands” (62). Having both characters reacting to the visible evidence of Elie’s pain by repeating the same actions in different shots brings the exchange even more to the foreground of the film. They are both present and absent in this bridge of remembrance, pillars designed to help Elie experience a reason for why she should not forget what she has gone through. In the past and present, there is an equal understanding of loss, a wish for the preceding events to not have occurred so everything could just be.

In the mindset of wanting to just be, to just allow the haunting beauty of Hiroshima to overtake the knowledge of their eventual separation, Lui earlier on in the film starts to become Elie’s emotional grounding point at a point where Nevers’s connection to Hiroshima is only beginning to be glanced at. At one point, Lui has found Elie at the set of the peace film she is taking part in and in those close-ups, they reminisce and try to forget that she is leaving for Paris the next day. In the moment, Elie is briefly free of her past as she enjoys how caring Lui is towards her, “let[ling] him have his way as she must have let him have his way in love the night before” (Duras, 41). However, the moment is tainted when he expresses his love for her and she is unable to respond to his statement: “his words upset her, and she lowers her eyes” (41). Again, Elie is thrust back into the past, perhaps recalling the times she spent with her ex-lover. From her reaction to what Lui had said, it could be possible her ex-lover also expressed similar sentiments of love. . And as those memories arise, “the noise... grows and fades in inverse proportion to the seriousness of [his] remarks;” we see throughout the scene that “the [film] scenery [is] being taken down” (Duras, 37; ••• 38

39). The memories Elie is reliving clouds her ability to live in that moment and not see death and destruction within the haunted city, and so “she comes back to Nevers, having hardly left it” (Duras, 60). Lui, however, will always “try and lead her away from the parade. She’ll resist. But she’ll go anyway, without realizing she is leaving” (Duras, 42; 60). Engaging in her affair allows Elie to relive the days she had spent with the German lover, except with a different kind of tragic ending: they are from different countries and will likely never see each other again after these 24 hours. The memories are then trusted to oblivion, even if the physical evidence of tragedy remains in Hiroshima.

Hiroshima Mon Amour in essence acts as a route for which through the language of the film creates an allegorical exchange about memory and forgetting by using Elie’s story to show that people inevitably look back on their pasts, but it also acts as an example for how people who have gone through traumatic events tend to react and what directions they can take in comprehending their emotions from that situation. The language of the film demonstrates how there are moments when the past and present are able to connect to one another, that subsequently allow those moments to become part of an international memory. Through Elie and Lui, they each unite for a day to become part of that international memory.Elle’s experiences in Nevers, France keeps her trapped in the cycle of the days she spent with her German lover and the aftennath of his death, while Lui’s experiences involve having fought in World War II, losing his relatives in the atomic bombing, and suffering the national aftermath of such a tragic and devastating event. Although Elie and her experiences are the focus, the language of the film allows Lui and the city of Hiroshima to become the point of conversation to which one can ask if trying remembering trauma is better, or forgetting it. Given tliat there is no sense of memory for international people of the atomic bombing in Hiroshima, the ability to never speak about Hiroshima and what the people had gone through is continually said by Duras to be virtually impossible, because one can never truly forget the triggering events.However, it is up to the individual person to remember yet also attempt to live in the present. The past is always there as an undertone, but it is never able to truly return. Lui and Elie’s interactions with one another arephenomena that can never truly be answered or expelled from their consciousness’s, no matter what emotions are forced upon them.

Works Cited Duras, Marguerite. Hiroshima Mon Amour. Trans. Richard Seaver. New York: Grove, 1961. Print.

Hiroshima Mon Amour. Dir. Alain Resnais. Screenplay by Marguerite Duras. Perf. EijiOkada and Emmanuelle Riva. Pathe Filins, 1.9.5.9. DVD.

••• 39

Beowulf and Seth: A Note in Christian Typology

by Imad Jafar In the academic study of Beowulf, many scholars have touched upon the cultural and religious tensions between the story’s “pagan” roots and the Christian elements absorbed by the original narrative when the tale was finally put to paper by the Christians at some point between the eighth and eleventh centuries of the Common Era. Of all the “Christian elements” integrated into the text at the point of this final recension, one of the most explicit is the allusion to the ancestry of Grendel in verses 104-14 and 1260-68, where we read that the monster was in fact a descendant of the biblical Cain, the iniquitous son of Adam who appears in Genesis 4:25 as the first murderer—having killed his brother Abel in Genesis 4:8—and who is described in the New Testament as that “wicked [one] ... who killed his brother” (maligno erat, et occidit fratrcm suum) and whose “own works were wicked” (opera ejus maligna erant) whilst “his brother’s were just” (fratris autem ejus, justa).'

While this aspect of biblical typology—of Grendel representing a “type” of the “condemned ... outcast”- figure exemplified by Cain^ in the Hebrew Bible— is one that has already been dealt with in previous studies'* (perhaps because it is a correspondence explicitly outlined in the text Itself), scholars have been more reluctant to draw similar typological parallels between the Christianized portrayal of Beowulf and biblical figures that mirror the Germanic hero’s role in the poem as a liberator of men. One such analogous scriptural figure is Seth, the third son of Adam mentioned first in Genesis 4:25, whose role in Christian tradition as a type of the Savior—on account of his having re-established the cosmic equilibrium following Cain’s slaying of Abel—can indeed be compared with Beowulf s role as “rescuer” in his deliverance of the Danes from the atrocities of Grendel. In the present essay, therefore, I shall attempt to survey the key parallels between the figures of Seth and Beowulf—^parallels that may enable us to see in the Christianized Beowulf a type of the “redeemer figure,” a metaphysical idea of universal distribution’* that is exemplified in the fourth chapter of Genesis by Seth.

In both Genesis 4 and Beowulf, the protagonist-hero restores the social and spiritual order of the society and successfully defeats the opposing malefic force.

In Seth’s case, this victory occurs symbolically twice over: firstly, through the event of his birth, which marks the advent of a lawful replacement for Abel and successor to Adam and, secondly, in the subsequent triumph of the “sons of Seth” over the “sons of Cain,” with the latter’s lineage eventually being terminated, according to Christian tradition, during the Great Flood. The French metaphysician Rene Guenon admirably summarized the traditional understanding of Seth’s role as restorer in Christian esoterism: “Seth is one of the types of the Redeemer, and so much ... more ... as this name expresses the ideas of foundation and stability,® and in a way announces the restoration of the • •• 40

primordial order destroyed by the fall of man.”'^ Moreover, the spiritual victory of Seth over Cain is explicitly underscored in scripture, for while Cain is cursed in Genesis 4:15 (and eventually perishes), Sirach 49:19 emphasizes that “Seth ... obtained glory among men” (Seth ... apud homines gloriam adept! sunt)?

While one cannot be certain that the Christian adaptors of Beowulf looked at Seth for inspiration in their Christianization of Beowulf s character, it nevertheless is entirely appropriate to parallel his role with that of the third son of Adam given that Grendel is explicitly seen as a type of the Cain figure. The monster is described variously as a “God-cursed brute’” and as “the Lord’s outcast”’*'—both character traits which could likewise be used to describe Cain—and is portrayed as having descended from the “ogres ... elves ... evil phantoms ... giants,”" “misbegotten spirits,”" and “banished monsters”"’ that arose out of Cain’s progeny. Thus, if Grendel “is” Cain in the present typological schema, it logically follows that Beowulf, who slays Grendel rather than vice versa, must be taken to be representative of Seth rather than Abel. In fact, Beowulf is described as “a comfort sent by God to ... [the] nation”" and verses 16-17 further emphasize that it was none other than God Himself, the “Lord of Life, the Glorious Almighty” that “made this man renowned.” This repeated refrain may be compared to the aforementioned commemorative declaration of Sirach 49:19, wherein Seth is similarly said to have obtained a glory simultaneously earthly and celestial.

Christian tradition is in fact replete with explanations of this primeval opposition between Seth and Cain. For example, Augustine explicitly outlined that whilst the figure of Cain symbolized destraction and desecration, Seth, on the contrary, “signified resurrection.”" Gregory Palamas likewise established a clear distinction between the Cainite and Sethi an'*' lineages, saying: “[The primeval] division took place after Cain and Seth when Cain’s descendants were called men and Seth’s descendants were called the sons of God.”" Furthermore, as Christian tradition holds that all men descended from Seth—for Abel left no offspring and Cain’s lineage was terminated—Beowulf is linked to Seth’s seed both literally and spiritually in the present typological schema.

The Christian sources underscoring this essential distinction can be multiplied. Thus, we find in Apostolic Constitutions 8:1:5: “You rejected the gift of Cain, the murderer of his brother ... You accepted of Seth” and, again, from the mouth of Augustine: [There was] one line descending from the fratricide Cain, the other from Seth, who had been bom to Adam instead of him whom his brother slew ... two series of generations accordingly, the one of Cain, the other of Seth, [representing] the two cities in their distinctive ranks, the one the heavenly city, which sojourns on earth, the other the earthly, which gapes after earthly joys, and grovels in them as if they were the only joys. But though eight generations, including Adam, are registered before the flood, no man of Cain’s line has his age recorded at which the son who succeeded him was begotten. For the Spirit • • • 41

of God refused to mark the times before the flood in the generations of the earthly city, but preferred to do so in the heavenly line, as if it were more worthy of being remembered.*® This final point Augustine makes regarding Seth’s line being “more worthy of being remembered” brings us back, yet again, to Sirach 49:19 and offers, moreover, an obvious parallel to the great emphasis placed upon being honored by posterity in the entirely of Beowulf. To have one’s life and times commemorated by subsequent generations seems to be one of the most prestigious ways in which a person can be glorified in the Old English epic, and Augustine’s words articulate how the same principle holds true in the context of the Cain/Seth narrative.

There are certainly several other biblical heroes who offer more “immediately appropriate” parallels with Beowulf—David, for example, whose slaying of Goliath represents the single closest biblical analogy to the BeowulfGrendel war. But 1 have attempted to avoid such obvious comparisons in the present essay, in order to outline a more profound type of convergence; one that bypasses surface similarity and presents, rather, a metaphysical meeting of principles on a more profound level. If Grendel is “Cain,” then Beowulf may indeed be designated “Seth,” and it should come as no surprise to anyone that the same essential ideas are repeated time and again in the great stories of humankind, given that “the metaphysical notions of man may be reduced to a few types which are of universal distribution.”* ' I John 3:12 (Douay version). The Latin text is taken from the Vulgate, and has been given in order to sliow how the Christian adaptors of Beowulf would have read the biblical passages whilst writing their work.

Beowulf 107 (Heaney translation). ’ A manifest sign of Cain’s condemnation and status as an outcast occurs in Genesis 4:15: “The Lord set a mark upon Cain.”

See S. J. Crawford, “Grendel’s Descent from Cain,” The Modern Language Review 24.1 (1929): 63; Stephen C. Bandy, “Cain, Grendel, and the Giants of Beowulf,” Papers on Language and Literature 9 (1973): 235-49.

5 As Ananda K. Coomaraswamy put it, fragments of the same idea “will be recognized in the dogmatic life of every Messiali; in the miracles, for example, attributed to Cuchullain, Buddha, Moses, and Christ” (“The Darker Side of Dawn,” Smithsonian Publication 3304, Washington D.C., 1935). ® The Hebrew (Set) conveys literally the sense of one “chosen” or “anointed.”

■ “The Sacred Heart and the Legend of the Holy Grail,” Studies in Comparative Religion 16.3/4 (1984).

Online: http://www.studiesincomparativereligion.com/public/articles/Tlie_Sacred_Heart_and _the_Legend_of_the_Holy_Grail-by_Ren%C3%A9_Gu%C3%A9non.aspx.

Last accessed: November 22, 2016. ’ Sirach 49:19. ® Beowulf 121. Cf. 711: “God-cursed Grendel.” >o Ibid., 169.

'■ Ibid., 112-13.

• ••

42

Ibid., 1269.

■’ Ibid., 105. ’■* Ibid., 14.

City of God 15; 17. >« The phrase is used here in a general .sense and does not in anyway refer to the "Gnostic,” movement that used this name in early Christian history.

Bishop Kallistos Ware, G. E. H. Palmer, and Philip Sherrard (tr.). The Philokalia: Vol. IV (London: Faber & Faber, 1995), p. 375. Cf. Genesis 6:2. *’ City of God 15:8 and 15. Cf. St. John Cassian, Conferences 8:21. >’ Franz Boas, The Mind of Primitive Man (New York: The MacMillan Company, 1927), p. 156.

The Chicano Family Romance and Gregory Nava’s Selena

by Libby Torres In her book MeXicana Encounters, Rosa Linda Fregoso describes a prevalent trope she refers to as the “Chicano familia romance”; this family romance features the family “defined in terms of heterosexual marriage, nuclear bloodlines, and gender hierarchies”, even though these “traditional images of la familia ignore the diversity of actual familia life in most Chicano/a houselands” (Fregoso 72). Fregoso later explores the causes of this focus on traditional family values, explaining that “what Chicano mainstream images fail to capture is the deep fissures within Chicano/a communities over la familia” (73). For Fregoso, this idea of the Chicano family as a compact, tightly knit unit, with a father as the head of household, the mother as the center of the domestic sphere, and a few loving, obedient children is limiting- “countless others have criticized the ideology of la familia because it is based on patriarchal kinship; they have thereby spoken outside the family, against the familia romance” (73). Fregoso’s exploration of the effects m of speaking against the family romance reveal how central the idea of la familia is to the Chicano movement in general. And Gregory Nava’s film Selena, with its portrayal of Chicano family life at its best and worst, can be seen as an interpretation of the ideas presented by Fregoso; Selena both supports and subverts this idea of the typical Chicano family romance.

From the beginning of her exploration of the Chicano family romance, Fregoso highlights the importance of la familia for the Chicano movement as a whole; “from the inception of the Chicano Movement, Chicano/a activists mobilized around the one institution over which they exercised control, championing la familia as a ‘righteous causa’” (73). She quotes Anne McClintock in describing how “A guiding principle of the Chicano movement... is the preservation of family loyally... la familia de la raza unites Chicanos to struggle as a family tied together by camalismo”, a concept referred to as “political familism” by Maxine Baca Zinn (73). As an agent of Chicano nationalism, the idea of la familia is rife with boundaries; “mobilizing through the institution of la familia and adhering to family ideology as the basis for the nation depended on the exercise of gender power” (Fregoso 74). Male claims on female sexuality are also part of this “code of family loyalty”, and perhaps the most obvious example of gender roles within la familia is the status of the Chicana mother; “occupying the symbolic place of the Virgin Mary,” Fregoso writes, “the Chicana mother is enshrined in motherhood and domesticity; her subordination is thus understood as a ‘divine’ fact” (74). The influence of Catholicism on la familia is evident, yet “Chicana/o family ideology also draws from Anglo-American norms around heterosexuality and consanguinity, especially in its assumptions about very particular roles for women as wives, mothers, economic dependents, nurturers, and cultural transmitters” (Fregoso • • • 44

77). Fregoso makes clear the various factors that result in the subordination of Chicanas as mere wives and mothers within the context of Chicanismo.

If Chicana women are expected to exist solely in the domestic sphere, then it is men who, by default, become the breadwinners and primary authority figures. Fregoso explains how, within nationalist discourse, “men... represent the progressive agent of national modernity”, thereby revealing the prevalent attitudes towards Chicano men within the movement (77). Chicana women are the ties to tradition, while it is the Chicano men who actually engage with modernity, at least according to Fregoso’s understanding.

With its focus on la raza, gender norms, Catholicism, and heterosexuality, among other aspects, the Chicano family romance according to Fregoso is an incredibly limiting concept. Gregory Nava’s film Selena wrestles with this idea of the Chicano family, yet does not arrive at a clear resolution. A biopic of the eponymous Mexican-American singer, Selena chronicles the rise of Selena Quintanilla in the Tejano music scene and beyond, with special focus placed on her familial relationships and childhood. At once a portrait of the Chicano family romance and a refutation, Nava’s Selena effectively portrays the complexities of Chicano family life unabashedly, and provides a glimpse into the background of one of the most celebrated Chicana musical artists of the 20th century.

The film begins, after a brief sequence of Selena performing at the Astrodome, wdth a few scenes from her father’s background. Abraham Quintanilla was part of a vocal group called Los Dinos- the movie briefly portrays their struggles within the Texas music scene. Rejected from white clubs due to their Mexican-American background, and booed out of Mexican ones for not knowing any Tejano music, Abraham quickly learns the perils of being a Mexican-American artist in the music industry. After the foray into Abraham’s past, the film jumps forward to Selena’s childhood in Texas. Here, the myth of the Chicano family romance is more or less apparent— her father has a steady job outside the home, while her mother, it is implied, stays home to take care of Selena and her two siblings. After hearing Selena sing, Abraham decides to create a band with her and her siblings as members and subsequently open a Mexican restaurant where they can perform, in order to ensure their musical success. But when her father decides to leave his current job due to the pressures of the restaurant, it is Selena’s mother, Marcella, who has misgivings, saying it was her dream to own a house and raise her children in it; her dream, essentially, is domestic security. While the initial formation of the Quintanilla family adheres to the typical family of “La Raza”, thereby “[conforming] to the Western family ideology of the nuclear heterosexual family as ‘natural and universal’”, the insistence of Abraham Quintanilla on his children’s involvement in the music industry subverts the traditional values associated with la familia (Fregoso 76). Instead of being the macho “head of the family” who “is usually seen as actively combating acculturation and assimilation”, Abraham instead • •• 45

encourages his children to perform outside of the household, albeit in the Tejano music scene only (Fregoso 79). The involvement of the Quintanilla children in the music scene, and their father’s insistence on success above all costs can be seen as disrupting Fregoso’s family romance, yet it is important to remember that Selena and her siblings performed as a family unit up until her death; they remained loyal to some concept of la familia at all times, regardless of its connotations within the Chicano community.

Fregoso quotes Sonia Saldivar-Hull in stating that “the code of family loyalty begins with the assumption that men can claim possession of female sexuality” (74). From the beginning of Selena’s career, Abraham is protective of her, though not at any cost to her popularity or performances. The film jumps from Selena’s childhood performances at her family’s Mexican restaurant to her performance at a state fair or carnival of sorts in 1989; Selena is much older and, during one of her songs, takes off her jacket to perform in her bra. Her father is outraged, telling her motlier that “there are men here!”, before confronting Selena on the tour bus after the performance. When it is revealed that Marcella did, in fact, help Selena make her scandalous outfit, Abraham bemoans his situation; “how come no one can talk to me about this kind of stuff.’”. While Selena and her father make up eventually (and while Selena would go on to become famous for her eye-catching yet undeniably revealing outfits), it is clear that Chicano males feel they have a right to make claims on Chicana sexuality, especially within the family unit. Instead of being a docile, pure, and virginal domestic figure, Selena takes control of her own sexuality, a fact that does not sit well with her father. Of course, he is a father looking out for his daughter, but Abraham’s resistance to Selena’s sexual agency can also be seen as a continuation of the gender roles perpetuated by the Chicano family romance.

As Selena’s popularity grows, she is offered a chance to perform in Mexico.

While she and her siblings are initially excited, her father is reluctant to let them go, fearing Selena will be met with derision from the Mexican populace and press due to her status as a Mexican-American. Abraham explains the plight of the Chicano thusly; “being Mexican-American is tough. Anglos jump all over you if you don’t speak English perfectly. Mexicans jump all over you if you don’t speak Spanish perfectly. We gotta be twice as perfect as anybody else”.

The struggles of the Chicano find an outlet in la familia, which “unites Chicanos to struggle as a family tied together by camalism, the spirit of brotherhood” (Fregoso 73). In the context of Selena, the propagation of Chicano family ideals can be seen as a direct result of the struggle of La Raza; Abraham laments: “We gotta prove to the Mexicans how Mexican we are. Prove to the Americans how American we are. We gotta be more Mexican than the Mexicans, more American than the Americans, both at the same time!”. Abraham’s past experiences as a Mexican-American in the music industry make him critical of the Chicano experience, yet he and his family still embody many of the ideals of the “family romance”. Later, however, he acknowledges to Selena the • •• 46

difficulties of being a woman in the industry: “you broke the Tejano music scene wide open. No woman’s ever been able to make it. Now you’re number one.” Abraham at once supports the Chicano family romance in relationship to La Raza, and recognizes its shortcomings and influences on the Tejano music scene.

A subplot throughout the second half of the film is Selena’s relationship with her guitarist Chris Perez. As their relationship develops and they talk of marriage, Chris tells her: “I can take care of you”, to which Selena exclaims gleefully: “see now, there’s my macho man talking!”. She seemingly supports the Chicano familial trope of machismo— men taking care of helpless women.

Later, Selena and Chris elope, despite her mother’s objections tliat they are too young and her father’s objections that Chris is not respectable. After their marriage, Selena reveals to Chris and her mother that she wants a baby within the next few years, thereby continuing the cycle of the Chicano family romance.

Even though Selena was a successful and independent artist in her own right, her maniage and desires for children set the stage for a continuation of the traditional familia romance.

As a whole, Selena both supports and subverts the Chicano family romance that Fregoso explores. Selena’s childhood and adult family life are both more or less typical examples of the power of la familia within the context of the Chicano movement. Her brutal murder highlights her importance as a Tejana/Chicana artist in an otherwise male-dominated industry, and while Gregory Nava does not portray the stereotypical Chicano family, his portrait of the nuances and motivations of the Quintanillas support the concept of la familia de la raza, while at the same time revealing its shortcomings.

••• 47

Three Movements Whispered to My Lover

by Hetoise Juana Starnpa I My love, defend me.

Make me sane.

Be to me the marble columns holding up the Library of Alexandria.

nothing more of him, can I be left to describe you?

The Divine caimot be described with mortal language.

What am I to do when I think of expressing those qualities of yours.

Which are both the source of my comfort as well as my suffering'?

I might tell them: You pass by me like the dove over the Arc Unaware of the effect your vision Invokes on that sailor Ignorant not of your splendor But of the worth it has to me.

Once you collapse All knowledge and reason falls to dust.

All words mix and form non-sense.

My love, don’t deny me your constant support I fear if for one moment those beams falter I will crumble into a backward heap of ancient dust— no longer a long-labored testament to knowledge But another victim of the dis-order of knowing too much And the caprice of storing it all in one place.

Ill Yellow, the sun you chase me beneath, I gasp.

Blue your eyes which have crow’s feet for cradles, you riddle.

Red that deliberate scarf around my neck which catches your eye, you bull; I brace myself.

White like a child’s diaper, these colors are petals of laughter falling.

Il ‘Tell us of him’ they ask, but how, when the disciples who saw Jesus risen wrote

••• 48

Crow’s Sonnet

Soneto del cuerv o

by Octavio Morel

I hear the omen of a recollection, the chanting ofa solitary crow, while the moon is covered with a gown, great and black - the final abyss in which I lose myself.

Oigo como presagio de un recuerdo los cantares de un cuervo solitario, y cubre la luna con gran vestuario negro, el final abismo en que me pierdo.

Real song, wings of disagreement, firm truth, wrapped in a calvary, your frigid company is my corsair, marooned in a dream I still remember.

Canto real, alas del desacuerdo, firme verdad, envuelta en un calvario, tu fria companla es mi corsario, varado en un sueno que ailn recuerdo.

Loyal bird, lethal, never trapped, awakeningfrom a vehement dream, a sad, self-absorbed princess :

Ave leal, letal, nunca atrapada, que despierta de un sueno vehemente a una triste princesa ensimismada:

Your black truth is iridescent, a memory thatfalls unleashed from the faithful song of an enamored crow.

tu negra verdad es iridiscente,, un recuerdo que cae desatado del fiel canto de un cuervo enamorado.

••• 49

Stalingrad and Nationalism

by Brianna E Philpot World War II, or the Great Patriotic War, as it is known in Russia, occupies a special spot in the Russian collective memory. In Andrey Malyukov’s film We Are From the Future (2008), four friends, after insulting the memory of fallen Soviet soldiers, travel back in time to witness and participate in the Battle of Stalingrad (1943). With so many significant moments in Soviet and Russian history from which to choose, why did Malyukov select Stalingrad as the vessel through which to make his appeal for a return to Russian nationalism? This paper argues that the Battle of Stalingrad is one historical instance that provides the imagination with the necessary mixture of collective camaraderie, trauma, and pride that other historical instances, such as the Siege of Leningrad and Battle of Berlin, fail to combine. This special union of collective sentiments allows Malyukov to glorify a problematic past while inviting his audience to revive Russian national pride.

First and foremost, it’s important to understand why the filmmakers chose World War II as the medium through which to appeal to Russian nationalism.

As mentioned earlier, World War II is known as the Great Patriotic War in Russia, but before Hitler’s rise to power, the title belonged to the War of 1812.

The similarities between these two wars are striking. A Western European military genius with a dangerous political ideology invades the Russian Motherland only to be defeated by the great Russian people, who in turn save Europe and the world. So why is World War II more fruitful for Malyukov than the War of 1812? According to Aleida Assman in “Memory, Individual, and Collective,” social memory exists for approximately eighty to a hundred years, or tlie time in which three to five generations of family coincide and form shared experiences and memories (Assman 213). According to Assman’s theory, Malyukov, to appeal to the social memory of his audience, is limited to historical events that happened no earlier than 1908-1928. This immediately eliminates most of Russia’s imperial (and pre-imperial) history. Even events such as World War I and the October Revolution are on the periphery of the collective memory. Although earlier events can be useful for propaganda (Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible, for example), they cannot appeal to social memory the way We Are From the Future does. This concept of social memory is visibly represented by the interactions between the four protagonists and the old woman whom they meet at the beginning of the film. She bridges the gap between past and present, and without her, the heroes would be unable to journey back in time.

This updated timeline does not, however, exclude the Yezhov Terror, which reached its height in 1937, from consideration. The terror of the thirties undoubtedly shaped Soviet society and the collective memory, so why is this period of Soviet history unsuitable for Malyukov’s purpose? In “Hard and Soft • •• 50

in Cultural Memory: Political Mourning in Russia and Germany,” Alexander Etkind observes that nations generally do not memorialize shameful events from their history (Etkind 40). Although Etkind was referring to historical episodes in which one group oppresses another (e.g. Europeans and Native Americans in the New World), the sentiment can be extended to the attitude surrounding the Stalinist Terror in Russia. Etkind goes on to remark that “in the western part of Germany the processes of memorialization first began under the occupying regime right after the end of the war. The Allies preserved the concentration camps and quite soon opened them to the public” (Etkind 47). Without an external force to begin to commemorate the victims of the Stalinist years, it’s unclear when, if ever, the state, culpable for the persecution of its own people, will officially accept the responsibility of atoning for its crimes, especially after the fall of the Soviet Union. This process is complicated further by the ambiguous relationship between victim and perpetrator in Stalinist Russia.

Although Malyukov’s film is a piece of art rather than a state-sponsored memorial, its message depends on the premise that the govenunent is good, and for that reason, it can’t bring attention to events like the Great Terror before those issues have been resolved. Whether or not We Are From the Future is pro-Soviet is beyond the scope of this paper, but in order to stimulate Russian nationalism, Malyukov must appeal to a positive, shared past, and The Purge is both a negative experience and an opportunity to arouse suspicion and rebuke rather than patriotism. This conflict can be seen in the protagonists’ interactions with the unit’s political officer. Malyukov prepares this character to be a villain, but ultimately the conflict neither climaxes nor resolves. Additional focus on these interactions would have necessitated some a reckoning with the complicated Soviet past. Additionally, the spirit of camaraderie that We Are From the Future seeks to highlight can’t exist in the paranoid atmosphere of the Purge. Imagine Dima, the unfortunate soldier whose missing cigarette case is the impetus for the four protagonists’ trip back in time, as a victim of the Purge.

He is still a prisoner, but now his enemy isn’t evil Germany, but his own country, perhaps even his own neighbor. Although as a post-Soviet product, the film could theoretically criticize the past without implicating the present, such a film would naturally struggle to awaken pro-government sentiments. Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket (1987) is an excellent example of this. It was therefore necessary for Malyukov to choose a historical moment in which the Russian people faced an external threat, and World War II provided many such moments.

At first glance, based on scale of destruction and loss of life alone, the Siege of Leningrad appears to fit the parameters. The siege lasted for 872 days, during which time hundreds of thousands of people died. Unlike the Terror of the thirties, the boundaries between enemy and friend are much clearer in the Siege.

Fascist Germany is undeniably responsible for the catastrophe, and as the loser, Germany is forced to accept the blame for the loss of life. In other words, there • •• 51

are no unresolved issues of guilt regarding the Siege of Leningrad. In fact, those who question the accepted nanative are subject to society’s scorn. When Dozhd TV, a Russian television network, dared to ask its audience if Leningrad should have surrendered to the Germans, the backlash was immediate and harsh. As Will Englund pointed out in The Washington Post at the time of the controversy, most Russians subscribe, not without reason, to the notion that the Soviet Lfnion rescued the world from Nazi Germany (Englund). The victims of the siege are naturally included among those heroic sacrifices. What makes the Battle of Stalingrad more amenable to a nationalist message than the Siege of Leningrad?

First, the nanatives surrounding the two events emphasize incompatible understandings of what happened. Although soldiers who fought during the Battle of Stalingrad are recognized for their sacrifice, the dominant narrative is that of pride and accomplishment. In his interviews with Russian and German soldiers who fought at Stalingrad, Jochen Hellbeck describes the attitudes of the Russian soldiers: “Fulfillment speaks tlirough the words and portraits of Merezhko, and those of many other Red Army veterans. Before meeting with us, several of the Russians would ask us the same question: with uniform or without? They readily volunteered to slip into their parade gear and show their medals” (Hellbeck 135). Compare this to the phrase that has become ubiquitous in association with the Siege of Leningrad: “Nobody, nothing has been forgotten.” The siege is remembered as a tragedy, the way Americans might remember 9/11. For this reason, although it is by no means a source of shame for Russians, the siege lacks a victory narrative. Yes, the city survived, but the fact that Dozhd could ask, “should Leningrad have surrendered?” illustrates the difference between these two historical moments. The Russian victory at Stalingrad was undoubtedly crucial to the war effort. Had the protagonists returned to the Siege of Leningrad, rather than witnessing heroic sacrifice (as they do with both Dima and “the corporal”), they would see only senseless death through disease and starvation.

Russian society may react badly to the suggestion that destruction resulting from the Siege of Leningrad could have been avoided, but that doesn’t change the fact that the Russians (and the Allies) gained nothing from the siege. Reimagine the soldier Dima now as a victim of the siege. He has a concrete enemy, the Germans, and in a way, he is still their prisoner, but there is no path for him to fulfil the hero narrative. Not only is he incapable of saving himself (as is the case in the film), he is incapable of saving the protagonists. There is no path to victory; there is only waiting for the end.

Why then didn’t Malyukov choose the Battle of Berlin, the ultimate symbol of victory and Russian glory? The Battle of Berlin combines both the external threat and the victory narrative, unlike the Yezhov Terror and Siege of Leningrad, and the moment of Soviet victory over the Germans is arguably the quintessential moment of unification and national pride to which nationalism aspires. The problem, however, is that it is at the Battle of Stalingrad that this narrative begins. In other words, the Battle of Berlin is merely the fulfilment of • •• 52

the narrative, the climax. In “Loyalty Gleaming, Guns Screaming,” Florian Schwieger comments that the Battle of Stalingrad is considered the moment in which the underdog Soviet Union defeated indestructible Germany, and this moment led future Soviet historians to reach the conclusion that the Soviet Union was socially, politically, and ideologically superior (Schweiger 2.35).

Even Russian President Vladimir Putin reinforced this narrative as recently as the 70th anniversary of the battle in 2013: “The unconquered city was the starting point in our troops' march to Berlin” (Interfax).

By the time the Red Army makes it to Berlin, this epic struggle or clash of civilizations is over. By 1945, there is no longer a viable ideological enemy because the Russians have already won. Furthermore, the fact tliat the Battle of Stalingrad takes place on Russian soil is symbolically significant and elevates the Battle of Stalingrad to status of Epic. The Epic is one of the earliest forms of storytelling in which a nation (the Soviet Union) is at the brink of destruction, the people must defend their motherland (Russia) from invading enemies (the Germans), and a hero (Dima) usually sacrifices himself for the greater good.

The Epic is the genre of nation building (Alexander), and as such, the Battle of Berlin, as an all but guaranteed victory, does not provide the appropriate circumstances. For We Are From the Future to successfully appeal to nationalism, there must be a patli to victory, but there must also be the possibility of defeat. In other words, if Malyukov had depicted the Battle of Berlin instead of the Battle of Stalingrad, there would be nothing at stake for the protagonists and by extension nothing at stake for the audience. One of the final scenes, in which one of the protagonist violently scrapes off his swastika tattoo, represents the change in or reaffirmation of attitude that the audience should experience. It is necessary to witness the horrors of war in order to experience this, and there are no horrors to be found in a victory march. Finally, imagine Dima as a soldier in the Battle of Berlin. He’s no longer a prisoner, but a conqueror. There’s no need to sacrifice himself because the sacrifices have already been made by those who came before him.

In conclusion, Malyukov chose the Battle of Stalingrad for his film because it provides a narrative that combines unification against an external force, the possibility of defeat, and a path to victory in a medium that appeals to Russian social memory. The four protagonists are transported to a meaningful moment in time where they can safely witness Russian glory and sacrifice without addressing the moral ambiguity of the Soviet regime. This combination in turn invites the audience to relive heroic moments from the past and evaluate the present with a nationalistic attitude.

••• 53

O coiBopeiiHH Mupa.

Oh paaaHHHa hx, paaaaa hm KaHiue, HroObi noTOM HaHrparbca Bnoane.

by Anna Filonenko Xaoc BOKpyr. Cion.

Boxchh ^yx pa jMeraji Bce Bjipyr.

4eHb eflHHUH - nopa HanaTb. B nycTOTy CHjiy BJKHBjiaTb.

CaeayromHH aenb Swa bho sador.

Mhp 6e3MaTeaaiocTH rpean noer.

Bbia acHb rapMOHHH pa3 3a Bexa.

Bbiao. Hcaeaao. Beab acH3Hb TaxoBa. ***

He6o, 3eMjw. Byaer Tax! flcHb. Ho4b Toace ne apar.

SBynaHHC Kanejib cjihuiho c HcOec: Bofla - poacflCHHa Bee.

«3to xopouio» - jiyMan Bor. Oh craHer Oyaymero npopoK. CoH. He Obijio ero roraa.

HoBoro flHH HaKpbuia BoaHa. «OKeaH BCCoObeMafoiHHH, paccrynHCb. Cyuia. KoMaHayio: npeo6pa3HCb.» 4bixaHHe. Tenaaa 3eaeHb acHBa. njiaHCTa BO3ayx npHoSpeaa.

/^CHb HCTBepTblH 6bUI nocBamcH orHio. 3Be3abi aBHjiHCb B 6e3aoHHyio TbMy. CoaHUCM Ha jBaaH CBCT aHCBHOH, HoHbK) Jlyny OKpecrujiH raaaoH. ^IcHb narbiH. Tsapb naaBaiomaa

TpH Mecaqa ao nepeeaaa H MHoro-MHoro aneft b nyrH...

A a yate ce5e pHcyio,

Kax cxBO3b Toany, crpewacb HafiTH Tboh CToab npHBbiHHbiH CHaysT, B pasaHHy caoaa: "HpHaer!

Bot a npHexaa." PajBC npa sanHx He caMH Mb! ce6e tbophm?

Mbi odofiacM c T060H MaHxeTreH,3aTeM, MOTbiabXH B3aeTHM.

HyexaH Bce 3to HeBO3MoacHo, H aaa reSa a aHuib aHTa.

fl 5yay acaarb noxa MHHyTbi, Kax coaHua aya, B jpacTaa Mena!

fl 5yay acaarb, xoraa h3 raynoii, aaapoa^aaa, 4aa acMHbix MopcKHe ccKpeTbi luenraaa.

HeaoBxoH acBoaxH CMeiuHoft,

fl CTany aceHiuMHOH aocTOHHofi H aaa reQa raxofi poaHoft!

Ot raa3 noBeaHreaa yKpbiaacb aerxo, Ero npoHCxoaamee He paaaaeKao.

***

3Bepb ana uiecroro oxaiaaca ayaneft, flaa Herepdypra nery onHcaHHii! JleB - cymecTBO ropaanx xpoBefi.

Caoaa xpaayr jaaeTHbie MeaTbi...

CxBO ib neHHe hthu BCe ac cauuiHa THiuHHaHo naHopaMHbix (Jtoro oaepraHba Xpanar MrnoBeHHa xpynxoft xpaco C yMa aioSoro a<HBoro caeaer OHa. /^aa aeaoBexa Bory 5biaH Hya<Hbi. *** H3 ce5a aocraa oh xycoaex Mearbi.

Haaeioca, aro MoexBa mhc caaHOT ao6pyio ••• 54

51 ayMaio, noapyron!

BsjiereTb 6bi nojiyHHjiocb...

Mbi 6yaeM c hch SojiiaTb o bccm Bot ecjiH 6 ToabKO KaMcnb ne Tanya.

HanepedoH...

H fla»e, nepesBOH FIctpobckhx KapHjiEOHodd npocbinaact no HonaM. He sarayiuHT aceaanbc 6biTb c neii, KaK c HbiTanBOCTb, Bce Tax ace, paaacnracT wope ayw. poanoH. ***

H neiy cna npoTHBHTbca noTOxy, C saOBenneM cocrasHTb aoroBop. Oano aceaanne naBoanT noBoaoxy; Beacaxb, nocTaanB con cede b yxop

HoneMy rax Soabno?

Ho HonaM ne cnnTbca..

HeaaKOHHCHHOH ocrajiacb ra CTpannua.

BeacaTb, ne pa'jGnpaa naana, Bnepea, htoGw naanery oxBarnTb.

nyCTb ne nopriiT KHnrn Bbipay 5e3 CTpaaanba, SanpCTHB BOTBpaTbl, HyscTBa n aceaanba.

3to bcc ne Baacno!

ToabKO KOCTH aOMHT...

H TOUIHHT nOpOK).

Kto-to b cepaue tohct.

Hto6 6biao 3TO cyMaciuecTBHe npHTnanbeM,

Kax cnabHo Mnp GeayMna xoay aiofinTb.

Hto6 aoxaaaTb bccm; caacTbe BO iBbiiuacT! H aaace cpeab pa jpyxn naiunx aea.Cepana naaeaca, noaeroM oxpbuiaacb.

HaxoaaT npo cnaceHne xynaer.

JtyMaio, H'iatHTO..

Snaio, Bce npoxoanT! Ho ceroana noabio Boab Mena n jBoaHT.

**♦

On the Creation of the World The epicenter of chaos. Stop.

Sleep. It didn 't exist at that time.

The Holy Spirit swept everything away.

The wave ofa new day hits.

O«Zp one day for any moment in time, so it’s time to begin.

"The all-encompassing ocean makes way.

To install strength in the emptiness.

Terra firma. I command you: transform. " One breath and the warm flora is alive.

The sky, the Earth. Let it bel The planet acquired air.

Day. Night is neither an enemy.

The sound ofdripping is heard Thefourth day was dedicated to flames.

The stars appeared in the bottomless gloom. from the sky: Water - the weight of life.

A daily light was called Sun, At night, the Moon was given the lead.

"This is good, ” thought God. He will become a prophet of the future.

The fifth day. The swimming beast shook ••• 55

For the terrestrial, whispered the secrets of the sea.

From the eyes of the lord, it gently took refuge.

He was not entertained by that which was happening.

I don’t care that all this is impossible.

Andfor you, I’m merely a child.

I will be patiently waiting when the time Like the sunbeam brings me up.

I will wait, when from a silly.

Awkward, funny girl I become a dignified woman The one who is close to your heart!

The beast of the sixth day was more exciting.

The lion - a creature of impassioned blood.

Despite the singing of the birds one is stillfaced with the silence. fVhich could drive any sane creature crazy.

He** There is no description for St. Petersburg!

Words steal cherished dreams...

But the outlines ofpanoramic photos Preserve the instan t of brittle beauty.

God needed two people.

He extractedfrom himself a bit of his dreams.

He distinguished between them, gave them cliches.

In order to spend some quality time with his new toys.

*** I hope that Moscow will become my goodfriend!

Vying with each other. She and I will prattle on about everything...

And even the chimes of the Petersburg Bells Won’t dampen my desire to be with her, like one of my own.

The following day was without worry.

The world of tranquility sang birdsongs.

It was the only day of harmony in centuries to come.

It was. It vanished. Indeed, such is life.

Three months until moving And many many days on the way...

However, I already imagine to myself.

As though through a crowd in an effort to find Yourfamiliar silhouette, I will recognize your voice: "Hello!

So here I am. ” Is it the case that We can create a holiday to ourselves?

We will walk all over Manhattan with you.

Then take off like moths.

*** Why does it hurt so much?

No sleep at night...

That page remains unfinished.

I will not let it to ruin my bookWon 't feel miserable when pulling the page off, And refusing comebacks.

Feelings and desires.

None of this is important!

Just bones ache...

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56

oblivion.

The only wish veils my eyes with a mist: To run, after putting my sleep in reproach.

And nauseate from time to time.

Someone is drowning in my heart.

I think, it’s obsolete..

I know, everything goes by!

But today, at night The pain is exhausting me.

To run, not investigating the human suffering.

Forward, in order to embrace the planet.

In order to claim with the restless run How strongly I want to love this mad world.

*** I think.

It would be possible to soar...

If only the stone wouldn’t pull me down.

And waking up at night.

Curiosity, All just the same, floods my mind with thoughts.

In order to prove to everyone: Happiness elevates!

And even in our troubling times.

Hearts of hope.

Inspired byflight.

Discover verses about salvation.

And there's no strength to oppose the torrent.

To arrange a deal with the

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Four New York Poems

by Greg Drozdek

UNCLE JACQUES The last time I saw Uncle Jacques, I was eight, and he was in the alley behind the bar kneeling on a man's neck.

The man was nameless to me, but I saw him throw matches at the bum in the alley.

When Uncle saw this, he went out the back to the alley and I followed.

I watched him tear out off all ten of the man’s fingernails with a screwdriver.

The police came and Uncle went to an asylum where he cracked his head open on the wall.

At his wake, Jacques' coffin was wrapped in an American flag.

THE TUMOR One day, when I was ten, I was home from school with strep throat. My father had just come home from the hospital after having a tumor removed from his back. My mother was out, my brother was with her.

I was watching Scooby Doo on TV. The tumor was the size of a grapefruit before they cut it out. My father wanted them to give it to him, so that he could mail it back to the Communists back in Yugoslavia who beat him in jail over and over on that same spot. The doctors didn’t let him have the tumor. He was asleep on the bed as I watched TV. Then, I heard a rip. He turned in his sleep and the stitches in his back popped. I ran to him and tried to hold him, and the blood started hitting me in the face. I pushed the blanket down on his back and called the police and the bar. My father told me to take care of my mother and brother before he passed out. I held on to him, but the blood wouldn’t stop. He bled on me for a long time. I held him as hard as I could.

I blacked out while I was holding him. It took three ambulance workers to pull me off of him. I didn’t talk for a month after that. We never spoke about that day after he recovered. Sometimes in bad dreams that blood comes back to me while I sleep.

NO GLOVES When I was twelve, my kid brother threw a jumping-jack, a spinning, flame spitting, fire cracker thing, out the window and into my shoe, the high-top untied. It bounced in there and burned to my bone. I spent a month in the bum imit at Metropolitan Hospital after surgery.

There was a girl there. She was older, Puerto Rican, and she had a big thug boyfriend who played dominos with me sometimes. Carlos told me that he’d kill me if I touched her. He scared me, but 1 liked him. Then, there was an all city black out and we watched the fires and riots from the window. Maria came and slept in my cot. We didn’t tell Carlos.

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When I get out, I started hanging out with them uptown. Maria took me to a dogfight up by Pleasant Avenue and held my arm when a dog bit another one’s face off. Carlos put his arm around me and said, “Let’s see if you’re a pussy.’’ He takes me to a garage where kids are fighting in front of old guys for money. Carlos yells when 1 get disqualified for wrestling, but mostly, I win. He gives me five bucks and beer.

Three Fridays in a row, I fight and win. Then Carlos gets shot for sleeping with somebody’s girl.

I go to the bar. A man I don’t know punched a woman in the face, and I knock him down. Then it’s all bottles and stools crashing everywhere. Marty Mueller pulls me out, buys me a sandwich, and asks, “Why the hell did you do that?” I didn’t know why.

Marty got me my first bouncer job where I can hit the people who start fights.

He told me, “Fight, but only when it’s right, just like the first time I saw you fight.”

THE TACKLE I’m fourteen. I come home. My father’s drunk, breaking furniture. He screams, knocks me into the wall.

I tackle him, a beautiful, shoulder to hip form tackle, and he’s down, me on top, pounding his face.

He laughs and I get up, my hand bleeding. My breath gone.

My father looks deep into me as he gets up, says, “Gregor. You’re a man, now. Go, before I kill you.”

I go. I kiss the dog and go for good.

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The making of this journal would not have been possible without the dedication and hard work of a great number ofpeople (or a number ofgreat people).

Thank you Alyson Lounsbury, Andrea (ladberry, Avital Ronell, and the rest of the New York University Comparative Literature Department. Without your unwavering support this endeavor might not have come to fruition. We also thank all those who contributed their work—you challenged our expectations and helped us define the journal as a cohesive whole. And thank you for reading. We encourage you to criticize, analyze, and submit to brio. Above all, we hope it opens up a dialogue wherever it finds you.

The brio Literary Journal is edited by:

Nicole D’Alessio, Editor-in-Chief, majoring in Comparative Literature and Italian.

Chabelly Pacheco, Senior Editor, is a Senior GLS and Latin American Studies major. She has studied in Florence, Buenos Aires, and is currently in NY. Ryann McQuaid, Editor and Staff Writer, is a Senior studying History and Politics. She has studied in Dublin, Berlin, and will be moving to London post-graduation.

Vera Penavic, Editor and Staff Writer, is a senior majoring in Anthropology. She has studied abroad in Florence, Prague, and Shanghai but calls New York home.

Brianna Philpot, Editor and Staff Writer, is an aspiring cat lady who studies Russian literature and culture in her spare time. When she's not building the glorious socialist future, she likes to take naps and watch Netflix.

Emily M. Termotto, Editor, is currently in Paris; studies International relations and CompLit, has held positions at CNN, the UN and speaks English, Spanish, and French.

Libby Torres, Editor and Staff Writer, is a current junior majoring in Comparative Literature and minoring in Creative Writing. She speaks Spanish, English, and emoji.

Cover design is by Andrea Long Chu, PhD student in Comparative Literature at NYU, studying phenomenology, trans/feminisCqueer theory, affect theory, and black studies.

For information on submissions and editorial positions, visit the NYU Comparative Literature department website at http://complit.as.nvu.edu/obiect/complit.ug.brio.

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brio.

spring 2017